


Of Racquets and Leather Jackets

by snofugl



Category: Falsettos - Lapine/Finn
Genre: HIV/AIDS, My first Multi-chapter fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-06
Updated: 2017-06-21
Packaged: 2018-09-22 11:51:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 12
Words: 45,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9606452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snofugl/pseuds/snofugl
Summary: Two years have passed, but can lost time be made up for under a time limit?





	1. Getting By

It takes Whizzer Brown approximately five minutes to talk himself into going to Jason’s baseball game; it takes him less than sixty seconds to realize he may have made a horrible mistake.

 

Jason had called him up a week prior to the event, and while no mention of his father was made, Whizzer had a feeling it’s implied that Marvin will be in attendance. So he hesitates, tries pushing a couple excuses around, but the disappointment in the kid’s voice is enough to make his heart twist, and he agrees to make an appearance. He may have stepped out of the kid’s life for almost two years now, but there was anything Whizzer knew about the time he spent involved with Marvin’s wild tight-knit family scheme, it was that he had unintentionally fallen in love with Jason. He’d never spent too much time around kids before, and had fully expected this one to hate his guts for being the undefined cause of his parent’s divorce, but Jason had warmed to him quickly, and Whizzer had found himself growing attached before everything blew up in his face. He could brave _**one**_ baseball game for Jason, besides, he’d always enjoyed baseball— Marvin had always hated it. What were the chances that Marvin would be there? Surely he wouldn’t attend _every_ game, right? Whizzer had little legitimate reason to stay away.

 

While the call had been unexpected, it hadn’t been the first time he had spoken to Jason since being kicked out. He’d stopped by Trina and Mendel’s to leave his number for the kid should Jason need anything from him, only to be greeted by a wary Trina sporting a bruise that had blossomed across her cheekbone, who briefly explained what had happened and that Jason was out with Mendel for the afternoon, but that she’d give her son the number. Whizzer had thanked her and uneasily accepted her invitation to dinner that Thursday night. Whether her invitation was for Jason’s sake or out of pity he didn’t deserve, Whizzer still wasn’t sure. He attended a few dinners at their house, which he genuinely enjoyed to his personal surprise, as there were no chances Marvin would be showing his face there for a while, and he got to spend time with Jason as well. Whizzer winds up invited to the wedding in place of Marvin ( his invitation was withdrawn after The Incident ) and as their official wedding photographer.Spending the night with his camera in hand and drinks nearby, Whizzer finds it wasn’t as painful an event as he’d expected it to be. He’d never thought about getting married before; it’d never been an **option** so why think about it? But watching Trina and Mendel’s infectious joy affect everyone but himself, he finds that it’s all a little unfair— he’s alone for the first time in almost a year at his ex-lover’s ex-wife’s wedding, and isn’t going to be allowed to marry even if he wanted to. Which he _didn’t_. At **_all_**. Marriage meant being tied down, and Whizzer Brown was never tied by commitment.

Once he had delivered the developed wedding photos to the newlyweds, he dropped off their radars for almost a year and a half. Moved into a shoebox apartment in Brooklyn and kept himself afloat through more wedding photo commissions and various fashion shoots,vowing to forget about Marvin forever and how he loved him. Whizzer didn’t _want_ to love him anymore. He’d never wanted to love him from the start. It’d snuck up on him, the development of genuine feelings for someone who didn’t seem to give a rat’s ass about him. After all, how could someone who **cared** about him toss a suitcase at his chest and _shove_ him in the direction of the back door ( the neighbors certainly didn’t need to see him withdraw from the house in the middle of the night )? But _**Jason**_ hadn’t done anything wrong, hadn’t hurt him in any way. So to turn down the sudden invitation would just be _rude_ , wouldn’t it? By the time the date of the big game rolls around, Whizzer tosses his leather jacket on with ease, pushes aviator glasses up the bridge of his nose, and walks out the door of his apartment with little hesitation and a mantra on his tongue.

 

“You love baseball, you love Jason, you’ll say a quick hello and make a fast exit. You’ve got this.”

\---

 

Just a handful of boroughs away, Marvin pulls a crimson hoodie across his shoulders and heads to the door to meet his neighbors before heading to Jason’s game. He takes every chance he can to leave home these days; it’s always too _quiet_ here. Even on the weekends when Jason’s around it seems too quiet. The kid usually has his Walkman going, headphones snug on his head, and it takes a considerable amount for him to be pried away from the school work usually splayed out in front of him or his chess set. Lately he’s been more focused on collecting baseball cards than chess, Marvin has noticed, and refrains from speaking too sourly about the sport when Jason is in earshot. He attends the games when he can, his work schedule isn’t a very flexible thing, and has already set time aside this Saturday to attend what Jason and Trina are referring to as his son’s ‘big game’. He’s not entirely sure what’s so _‘big’_ about it, but once again he holds his tongue when the thought arises.

 

But having Jason around on the weekends, and the couple of times Jason would call during the week, is enough to keep Marvin satiated for now. If he gets lonely, he’ll slip next door to see what his favorite kosher caterer has concocted as of late, and will sit for a spell while Charlotte goes on about her day at the hospital. They’re great, Cordelia and Charlotte, but even when he’s smiling and enjoying their company he’s missing someone else’s. Which is **dumb** , because he should be over _that_ person. He shouldn’t still be lamenting their presence two years later. He should have moved on instead of letting his hand hover over the phone every now and again when his conscience slipped.

 

And yet his thoughts always seemed to wander back to one Whizzer Brown. This was _New York_ , there **had** to be other men he could find and romance. But even when he did manage to lock gazes with someone he knew was watching him a keen eye, they couldn’t hold his attention long enough for him to remember their name. They were too dull, lacked a certain passion in the way they moved and looked. They weren’t _Whizzer_. Whizzer, who fought back and as infuriating as it was to be challenged, he’d be lying if their heated arguments weren’t enticing. He’d trade any quiet night for one full of Whizzer’s relentless badgering about his fashion sense ( or in his ex-lover’s opinion, his  _ **lack**_ of one ). Marvin was **lonely** , and lonely didn’t suit him well. Not that there was anyone to blame for his being lonely aside from himself. He’d kicked Whizzer to the curb in a fit of anger, he’d been reluctant to call him up for weeks, and weeks turned into months, which turned into years. Whizzer has moved on by now, Marvin’s sure. If he were still seeing a therapist, they’d probably have told him he should move on as well. He was _trying_ to. But how do you get over someone you didn’t realize you loved until weeks after you’ve kicked them out of your house and your life? How do you reel someone you treated so poorly back into your life and expect them to stay?

 

But pushing Whizzer to the back of his thoughts as he shut and locked his door behind him, he focused on this game. Tries not to think about the likelihood of Jason’s team winning being slim to none. Tries to remind himself that he needs to keep cringing to a minimum. He reminds himself to keep his irritation with Mendel, who had dived head first into this baseball thing as soon as Jason started, to a minimum. He’s in the middle of reminding himself to be polite to Trina and not bring the subject of Jason’s bar mitzvah up today when a familiar voice sings out.

 

“—Afternoon, neighbor!”

 

Cordelia’s beaming at him as their paths meet on the way to the ballpark, sunlight catching in her golden curls, Charlotte besides her, their arms linked comfortably. Marvin supplies them with a mirrored smile and allows their paces to sync up.

 

“Afternoon. So, what’re you thinking the score will be?”

 

He raises an eyebrow in Charlotte’s direction and watches as a wry smile catches her lips; she was known for being able to predict scores that were scarily close to reality. Cordelia and Marvin wait on the edge of their metaphorical seats awaiting her response.

 

“I’d say it’ll be 8-4 in the Blue Devil’s favor.”

 

“You think _Jason’s_ team will win?” Marvin recoils, amusement apparent in his features. Charlotte returns the expression, faux disapproval shows in the way her eyebrows knot.

 

“You don’t have faith your _son’s team_ will win?”

 

“I’ve **seen** them play,” he retorts dryly, and Cordelia gives him a gentle shove.

 

“ _Shame_ on you! I have a good feeling about this game.”  
  


For whatever reason, whether it's the way the sun was shining even in this crisp weather, or the comfortable companionship his friends supplied, Marvin was compelled to agree: he had a good feeling about this game.


	2. Hit for the Cycle

Whizzer doesn’t get there until the final inning, feet carrying him across what is just about the only plush grass in the city ( the rest is still thawing in the brisk spring air ), with Jason’s team at bat. From the expressions on both the spectators and players faces, the Blue Devils weren’t doing too hot. Maybe he’d come just in time to be their good luck charm.

 

The 'big game' is sparsely attended, the majority of the stands occupied by parents, with few exceptions. Making his presence at all subtle is a dashed hope, so he approaches the bleachers with an air of confidence, chin held high with haughtiness. If he was going to make an appearance, it’d be a notable one. Whizzer wasn’t known for his subtlety, anyways. If Marvin was here, all he’d see is what he was missing out on and had been missing out on for two years. Let him mourn that loss and choke on it.

 

Mendel’s engaged in hollering at the child currently at bat, hands cupped around his mouth as enthusiastic encouragements echo across the field. Trina wearily slips her arms around her husband and pulls him back to his seat on the stands, though a hint of endearment Whizzer’s only seen a handful of times graces her features ( she certainly looks _significantly_ less tightly coiled than the last time they’d seen each other, which he finds surprisingly comforting ). All eyes are trained on the game, hyper focused and despairing. Whizzer keeps his gaze on the diamond, scanning the uniformed kids for the one he came for. Before he has the chance to spot Jason, Trina’s voice is beside him and all softness she’d possessed just a moment ago has fled to make space for skeptical distaste.

 

“ _—What_ are you doing here?”

 

It’s not unfriendly, but he’d been hoping for at least a little warmer of a welcome. Quickly, eyes pointedly not looking at hoodie-clad Marvin who was busy fixing his hair, Whizzer reminds himself that he wasn’t here for a reunion with the entire family, just to support Jason. It shouldn’t matter what _**they**_ thought of him anymore, it shouldn’t bother him in the least bit how they welcome him back into their lives ( even if only for what should be a fleeting moment ). With a temperamental sigh, Whizzer contemplates even answering the woman’s question. Did he _really_ need a reason to be in attendance? He could have been passing by and happened to check out the game for his interest in baseball alone. He could have known someone from the other team, if by some miracle he had been introduced to some other, more sane, people in this city. But better to answer truthfully than formulate a story he might have to elaborate on.

 

“Jason asked me to come,” he replies, even-tempered, as he plucks his glasses from his face and tucks them safely into his breast pocket, “So I came.”

 

His answer clearly didn’t put Trina at any further ease, and as he spares a glance Marvin and the two women he was animatedly whispering to, she exchanges looks with her husband. Clearly, his presence wasn’t ideal, not that her annoyance would drive him away now. So he folds his arms across his chest and turns his attention to the game. This is what he came for— not to stir up more drama, despite his flair for dramatics. Marvin’s eyes bore into him, to the point where Whizzer’s almost certain they’ve burned a hole through the sleeve of his jacket, and the temptation to look his ex-lover’s way itches under his skin. He’s never been antsy, but Whizzer’s starting to think this had been a poorly thought out idea. A poorly thought out idea that could end with poorly thought out _mistakes_.

 

“I care about the kid,” he pipes up again, remark made out to Trina, though his eyes remained trained on the field, “ _that’s_ why I’m here.”

 

This seems to reduce the amount of despair in the woman’s expression and she moves over to make a spot for him on the bleachers, to his pleasant surprise. Perhaps it’s the reassurance that he hasn’t come to see her ex-husband that warmed her back up to him, but he’ll take what he can get. Before he can move to take a seat Marvin speaks, something in his tone unidentifiable to Whizzer, which only encourages wariness.

 

“Well, look who’s here,” a nod to the two women beside him in an encouragement of introduction is made, “This is Charlotte, and that’s Cordelia— friends of mine.”

 

Cordelia supplies a sunny smile and offers her hand, which Whizzer shakes with an amiable “Hello”, a gesture he repeats immediately with Charlotte. They both look at him knowingly, and Whizzer has a feeling he’s familiar with exactly _what_ the pair of women know about him. Marvin’s still staring unabashedly, and Whizzer does not extend his hand to his ex-lover.

 

“Whizzer.”

 

“ _Marvin_.”

 

It comes off a little curt, more so then he’d intended it to be. But Whizzer keeps a beguiling smile on his lips ( if nothing else, for Jason to see he could still be civil around the rest of his family ) as he moves to sit beside Trina. He could be civil. He could pretend he hadn’t been waiting for a call for the duration of the first month living on his own after being kicked out. He could pretend he’s moved on. That there was nothing to move on _from_. How hard could that be? Yet when Marvin starts pushing Trina and Mendel from their spots to grab Whizzer’s jacket and yank him over to sit in front of him, he finds feigning annoyance difficult. Contemplates being snippy about his jacket being too nice to be tugged at, but refrains in the name of civility. Instead he shoots a somewhat apologetic smile at Mendel and Trina, who wear a matching set of dry expressions. It’s not until he feels fingers sliding across the back of his head, grazing his hairline, that he knows he’s made an irreversible gaff. Because a flicker of something akin to endearment sparks in his chest as he fights a smile, immature as Marvin’s behavior was, and the only part of him with any sense left is begging him not to turn around to see the smile waiting behind him.

 

" _\--Marvin!_ "

 

\---

 

 

Charlotte’s shooting him a look of warning as he retracts a hand from Whizzer’s hair, but Marvin can’t be bothered to listen to reasoning today. Whizzer looks undeniably **_good_** , and even the small smacks to his knee and hisses of his name aren’t enough to keep him from enjoying the view. It’s been too long since he’s had the pleasure of admiring this man, and if he’s being honest with himself, he’s been bargaining for one more chance to see Whizzer for two years now—the things he’s silently offered in exchange for another minute with his ex-lover must have sufficed because he’s gotten his wish, so there’s no wasting it today.

 

Jason steps up to bat, and Whizzer’s suddenly on his feet and moving towards the boy to show him how to properly bat— if what they’ve seen is any indication to how the coaches are teaching these kids how to play, they’ve done a rotten job. But Whizzer seems to know what he’s talking about, demonstrating how it’s supposed to be done to an attentive Jason. Eyes trained on the pair, Marvin barely registers Charlotte’s urgent whisper.

 

“Please tell me you know what you’re doing.”

 

“Of _course_ I know what I’m doing.”

 

Even Cordelia shoots him an unconvinced look, and he wilts slightly. This had been the last thing he’d expected to happen today, and Marvin's not entirely sure he knows just what to do about it. He kicked Whizzer out _years_ ago, did he really have the right to greedily ask for a second chance? Would he be making an even bigger error by not trying for that reprieve? They’d been a hot mess of a couple, that much was undeniable, but maybe that hadn’t been an _**awful**_ thing. The way they’d treated each other had been deplorable at times, but it had quickly become apparent to him once he was living on his own for the first time in over a decade that it wasn’t just the screwing and passionate arguments he missed. Watching Whizzer now, he realizes it was the revelry and the lighthearted teasing and the way Whizzer’s nose scrunched up when he laughed that Marvin missed to the point of aching.

 

As Charlotte voices her approval of Whizzer’s teachings, Marvin concludes that he can’t misuse this opportunity. But his tongue is tied and his palms are sweaty and he can’t recall being this apprehensive about something since the night he met Whizzer and something peculiar had made his heart hungrily reach out. Cautiousness be damned, he’s not going to blow it this time. So as Whizzer gives Jason a high-five, gives his helmet a pat, and returns to his seat on the stands, Marvin’s shifting from his place to stand beside him and attempts nonchalance.

 

“Think there’s any hope for the kid?”

 

Whizzer replies, and Marvin only really hears half of it, busily drinking in the way the other man’s lips moved and how his hair shifted in the light breeze that couldn’t penetrate the fabric of his hoodie, and tries not to think about how badly he wants to kiss those lips.

 

“I love Jason, but _this_ …this isn’t exactly his venue.”

 

Marvin allows himself a laugh, and something feels right again. The hole in his chest feels miraculously filled, and he can scarcely believe that this was all it took. What plagued him for two long years has been resolved with just one sentence and a smile, and he feels weak in the knees. Even as Whizzer shifts to call out encouragements to Jason, Marvin’s eyes are on him and words get caught in his throat. His odds were as slim as the Blue Devil’s chance at winning.

 

Jason’s bat is held at the ready, everyone’s breath is bated, and Marvin lets all restraint go like a balloon freshly out of a grubby kid’s hand at a carnival.

 

“—Would it be possible to get your number?”

 

Whizzer stares at him in surprise, attention torn from the game, and all Marvin can focus on is the way Whizzer’s lips begin to curl into an amused smile. It’s interrupted by the crack of wood against baseball, and both their heads snap to the diamond again, stunned. Everyone is on their feet, jaws agape, and Whizzer’s hand is wrapped around Marvin’s wrist.

 

Jason runs once the initial shock passes, and as everyone watches in awe as the Blue Devils elatedly take their win, Whizzer tosses Marvin a sly smile over his shoulder. Marvin swears his heart stops in his chest.

 

“You still _**have**_ my number.”


	3. Incentive

Immediately following the game, Jason’s team decided they all wanted to go out for ice cream to celebrate their victory. The kid is so high on sheer adrenaline he can barely get any words out as he high fives Whizzer and hugs his father goodbye, too thrilled by his team’s win to even register that the two men stood as comfortably close as they had two years ago ( his plan had worked like a charm; Marvin seemed so lonely as of late that Jason had taken it upon himself to do something about it ). As Jason ran off to join his mother and stepfather, who were already on their way to the car, so they could head to the nearest ice cream parlor, Charlotte and Cordelia said their hasty goodbyes.

 

“I _told_ you the Blue Devils would win,” Charlotte gloats with due conceit as she pats Marvin on the arm, Cordelia beside her looking equally as smug. Charlotte had yet to be wrong about a game’s score, and it was something she took pride in, trivial as it was in comparison to her other notable skills.

 

“I never said they wouldn’t,” Marvin retorts, though a smile reaches his lips regardless of any defensiveness in his tone.

 

“It was implied.”

 

“I’ll see you both Tuesday night.”

 

The couple takes this cue to leave, both glancing at Whizzer with no trace of subtlety, fighting perceptive grins. They exchange goodbyes, _‘nice to meet you’_ s, and Marvin and Whizzer are left alone to linger in the stands. The silence that falls between them is a somewhat uncomfortable one, seven hundred and thirty day’s worth of words settling unspoken in the air like fog. Apologies were in order, regrets to be confessed, desires to be named, but now that they had the chance to pop the cork on bottled thoughts, syllables stick to dry throats. Whizzers wonders if any of it needs to be said at all; Marvin wonders how Whizzer didn’t seem to have aged a day since he saw him last.

 

Whizzer clears his throat and nods in the direction Charlotte and Cordelia had gone in their swift retreat.

 

“Tuesday night?”

 

“ _Oh—_ they’re my neighbors. Forgot to mention that before. We have dinner together on Tuesday nights. Cordelia cooks.”

 

“ _Ah_. They seem nice.”

 

“They are.”

 

Another bout of silence plagues them, and Marvin’s about ready to let any semblance of a filter he’s retained go and allow the dam of pent up words to break and spill unceremoniously from his lips at any given second now. It’s been too long, Whizzer looks too good, and he’s been missing him for too many nights to let prior exhilaration go. He wants to say the right thing to make Whizzer laugh, wants to say the right thing to make Whizzer _**stay**_.

 

“I thought you changed your number.”

 

“I didn’t think you’d call.”

 

“I thought I’d never see you again.”

 

“I didn’t think you _wanted_ to.”

 

Guilt flickers across Marvin’s features, and he knows Whizzer notices by the way the younger man shoves his hands deep in lined jacket pockets and flashes a reticent smile at his toes.

 

“Couldn’t let Jason down,” Whizzer continues, as though to remind himself of that fact; as though he had to remind himself of his intended purpose in attending the game. Marvin nods, understanding. Of course. _Jason_. Whizzer had always gotten along well with his son, to the point where Whizzer became one of the only people Jason ever really listened to or respected. The cause of that phenomenon hadn’t made itself clear to Marvin yet, and frankly he’d given up on ever uncovering it. Let that be a secret to the universe and universe alone.

 

“Kid’s missed you, y’know.”

 

He’s hooked Whizzer’s attention now, he can see it in the crease of stout brows. All Marvin needed to do now was reel him back in, restore what he’d so carelessly thrown away in a rage. _Oh_ , the things his anger had cost him. He’d wanted it all, he'd always wanted it all: the perfect family, an attentive lover, bright son who could carry on the family name, and he’d almost lost every scrap of it in a matter of two barbaric exchanges. He’s managed to repair major cracks in regards to his son, and his relationship with Trina has been somewhat mended ( however strained their friendliness tends to be ), but Whizzer had called his bluff and kept his distance. Whizzer had flown off to who knows where, and Marvin would be lying if he ever said he hadn’t hoped to miraculously run into him on a daily basis for over a year. After a certain point, and _numerous_ talks with his neighbors, he had been forced to face the fact that Whizzer had either up and left town entirely or was avoiding Marvin’s area intentionally. Which made today's events all the more intriguing and exciting, and made him all the more eager to fix this one last mess he’d made.

 

“I missed him too,” Whizzer admits with a curt toss of his shoulders, stating the obvious.

 

“ _ **I**_ missed you.”

 

\---

 

Marvin’s words hang in the air for a moment, earnest and yearnful.Whizzer wants to believe every syllable, wants to tell the row of antsy birds perched on his heart to take flight and never look back. Because if Marvin is as sincere as his expression makes him out to be, Whizzer’s gone for good.

 

Jason having hit the ball was enough to have made the risk of coming here worth it— this new model of Marvin was a surprising bonus. He’s not sure how long this rectified version of Marvin has been around, and he’s not sure how long this Marvin will last, but something in him ( it’s the part of him that’s hungry to gamble ) insists he can’t pass this opportunity up. If he did, he’d be headed back to his unvarnished closet of an apartment, alone. And he’d continue to be alone, because even Whizzer knew that if he walked away from Marvin today he’d be hung up on this man all over again for another two years, if not _more_. Because there was something about the way Marvin spoke to him, the way Marvin looked at him now, that was uncharacteristically soft. All rough edges Marvin had possessed had been smoothed out. He was clumsy in mannerisms, tripping over himself to say hello and keep himself as close to Whizzer as possible and still maintain nonchalance— it was endearing. Whizzer couldn’t recall anything Marvin had done before _endearing_.

 

Lies don’t come readily to his tongue, and any resentment he’d forged to carry with him as armor today has melted away. He can’t look Marvin in the eye and tell him he didn’t miss him. Can't say that his heart hadn’t taken a punch every time the phone rang and it wasn’t him. That he’d tired of just about every other gay man who hung around at every gay bar in this city, because none of them could hold his attention the way Marvin could, no matter how well they dressed. Eyes searching for any trace of dishonesty, in case this was all just some sick joke, but coming up with none, Whizzer draws in an unsteady breath before offering a tight lopsided smile.

 

“I missed you too.”

 

“I _wanted_ to call.”

 

“But you didn’t.”

 

“But I didn’t,” it’s Marvin’s turn to smile dryly at his sneakers, regret plain on his face as he tucks his hands into the pockets of his hoodie, shaking his head ruefully. He’s never looked like more of a bum ( come _on_ , Marvin, you didn’t have **anything** nicer to wear today? ), but Whizzer can’t remember a time when he looked so _**real**_. This man wasn’t off playing pretend and trying to keep a tight leash on everything and every one in his life, wasn’t trying to maintain an image of someone he wasn’t.

 

Against his better judgement, all self-control withers and blows away like dust in the wind, Whizzer’s hooking a finger under Marvin’s chin and pressing a firm kiss to familiar lips. It takes only a second’s time for Marvin to reciprocate, eagerly kissing back once recovered from the initial surprise, but as his hands begin to move themselves to their places on Whizzer’s hips ( they practically moved on autopilot ), Whizzer pulls away. A cruel sort of coyness pulls at his expression, though it can’t effectively cover up the giddiness pumping through his veins, before he steps away, hand on Marvin’s chest to maintain distance.

 

“Let that be your incentive to call _this_ time.”

 

As Whizzer plucks his sunglasses from his pocket and slides them on, turning to go, he revels in the moment; Marvin is torn between laughing and crying in both elation and exasperation simultaneously behind his retreating back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not entirely confident in how this is going/in the writing for this chapter specifically, so any feedback/encouragement would be greatly appreciated!


	4. Rendezvous

Marvin calls the very next day.

 

Whizzer’s just gotten back to his apartment from a day of developing and printing from film, the smell of dark room chemicals clinging to the fabric of his shirt, and has hardly discarded his jacket, camera pouch, and portfolio on his pitiful excuse of a sofa when the phone rings. He’d deny practically _vaulting_ over the piece of furniture to reach for the receiver installed in the wall if ever asked. It was past eight o’clock, the time Marvin usually got home from work— two years later and he still remembered.

 

“This is Whizzer Brown speaking.”

 

There’s a small cough of hesitancy on the other wide of the line, and Whizzer squints, pressing the phone closer to his ear, briefly thinking he may have missed a mumble. But then Marvin’s voice crackles into audibility, and he has to bite his lip to prevent a grin from slipping across his face. This isn’t high school, Whizzer, get a grip. Giddiness over phone calls was for lovesick teenagers.

 

“Whizzer, hey. It’s, _ah_ , It’s Marvin.”

 

Awkwardness is tangible from across the wire, and it takes all restraint not to cringe with his whole body, because as natural as this all felt, there was a lot to catch up on, two year’s worth of information they both needed to brush up on. That wasn’t going to magically repair itself, however much the both of them wanted it to. So as he exhales a chuckle through his nose, Whizzer lets the tension go.

 

“You _**called**_ this time.”

 

It gets a rueful laugh out of Marvin, and Whizzer’s heart definitely does not flutter. That’s another thing reserved for lovesick teenagers who stay up to ungodly hours gushing over the telephone. Whizzer Brown is no lovesick teenager, thank you very much.

 

“You gave me good reason to.”

 

Damn straight he did. In fact, he’d probably have been offended if Marvin _hadn’t_ called so soon.

 

 

“Well since you’ve called, I assume you want to talk?”

 

The only other times Marvin had ever called him were to set up rendezvous times and places when still sneaking around behind Trina’s back. Not once had an actual conversation taken place over the phone, just brief discussions about where and when they could screw without being disturbed or discovered. Once Whizzer had moved in, there’d been no reason to call; he lounged about at Marvin’s place more often than not, those nine and a half months being the longest he’s lived with one man ( however unfaithfully ), and Marvin never knew where he spent his late nights out to make any disgruntled calls. But this time there was no specified reason for a phone call, no identified motive that Whizzer knew of.

 

“No, actually.”

 

Caught by surprise, Whizzer’s brow creases in bewilderment. If he didn’t want to _talk—_

 

“I’d rather talk in person,” Marvin continues hastily, and any wariness that had cropped up in Whizzer’s mind dissipates again. Marvin’s tone held no underlying intent, no hints at a possible fling as though nothing had changed. He genuinely wanted to talk, and Whizzer’s leaning against the wall beside the landline, fingers tangled in the cord. A talk couldn’t hurt, could it? He’d survived the baseball game, a simple discussion should be a breeze. He just hopes he’s not lapsing back into a major mistake.

 

“I have a shoot that ends at one-thirty tomorrow afternoon. We could meet after that?”

 

“I’d _love_ that,” Marvin’s eagerness bleeds into his voice and the speed with which he replies, and it’s enough to restore a fond smile to Whizzer’s lips, “How does coffee sound?”

 

Coffee was no romantic candlelit apology dinner, but for a talk, for what could be easing their way back into things, it would suffice.

 

“That sounds _fabulous_. There’s a cafe just a couple blocks from the studio called Skip’s, right on Willoughby. I’ve heard good things about it.”

 

“I’ll be there at two o’clock sharp.”

 

“I’ll see you then.”

 

After exchanging brief farewells, Whizzer quickly returns the receiver to its hook and takes a step back to gaze at it for a long moment, fingertips hovering over his lips. He’d just arranged a date with Marvin. He’d just let all alarms in his head be silenced for a coffee date. Silently, he hopes he hasn’t made a fatal error. The way his heart flutters a bit in his chest assures him he’s done no such thing.

 

—-

 

Despite Whizzer being closer to the location than Marvin by a long shot, he _still_ manages to arrive ten minutes late to their date. _Was_ it a date? Marvin really isn’t sure, but he’s too thrilled that Whizzer’s given him this chance to harp on that for very long. Whizzer had kissed him, encouraged him to call. That meant this _**definitely**_ qualified as a date, right? Waiting in the small rustic cafe at a raised two-person table, feet hooked on rungs attached to his tall seat, Marvin watches the street through the front window. He’s halfway done with the coffee he’d already ordered ( it wasn’t the best, but his order had been an impulsive one when an employee had asked about his lingering, and he didn’t plan on becoming a regular anyways ) and beginning to think he’s been stood up when Whizzer pushes through the door. It’s been roughly three years and Marvin still can’t help but stare when that man enters a room. With camera bag slung over his shoulder, leather jacket unzipped, and hair charmingly unkempt from city breezes, Whizzer drops his belongings on the chair opposite Marvin.

 

“It’s two-fifteen.”

 

“I was starting to think you wouldn’t come.”

 

It wasn’t accusatory, but Whizzer rolls his eyes regardless.

 

“I wouldn’t stand you up, Marvin,” he asserts, and Marvin chuckles at the offense clearly taken. It felt familiar, like a tangible memory that hadn’t been lost to time, “I’m gonna grab coffee, and then we can talk.”

 

He returns five minutes later with white ceramic coffee mug in hand and takes a seat. Marvin sips at his coffee, searching for the best way to start a conversation, something he’d been trying to do since he woke up this morning. He’d managed to get through the first half of his workday, which mercifully didn’t run overtime and allowed him his hour and a half break so he could make the run to Brooklyn. But it’d been one hell of a task keeping himself focused when all he wanted to do was mull over all the things he still needed to say to Whizzer. Not just apologies, but confessions. Unspoken admittances of affection and, dare he say it, _love_. Real, unbridled, undiluted love for this man. It struck him months after tossing Whizzer to the curb— he’d never said it. Never outright told Whizzer that he loved him. He’d never been one for such declarations, stingy with them even on anniversaries with Trina ( the affections he’d had for her were always of the platonic sort, he realized ), assuming his actions spoke for him. But his actions towards Whizzer had not always been kind, had not always been the sort to convey genuine affection. So it was no small wonder why Whizzer had taken that suitcase with a hurt sort of fury in his eyes and left. He probably hadn’t believed there was anything to stay for any longer. Fortunately, Marvin doesn’t have to start the conversation.

 

“The shoot took longer than I expected. Client couldn’t stop _talking_ , and it was nearly **impossible** to get a stable shot.”

 

It suffices for an apology, the closest thing he’ll hear of one from Whizzer, Marvin’s sure. So he takes it and waves it aside with a sweep of his hand.

 

“That’s fine. I still have about an hour left of my break.”

 

“Good,” Whizzer appears earnestly relieved as he raises his mug to his lips while Marvin clears his throat.

 

“So you’ve been in Brooklyn all this time?”

 

“Sure have. Figured it was close to the studio, plus I knew a guy who let me stay on his couch until I got a place of my own.”

 

Marvin nods, and suppresses any tiny sparks of guilt or jealousy. That was irrelevant at this point, considering the fact that Whizzer was willingly sat across from him when he had every reason to reject the offer of coffee. What Whizzer had done in the past two years was his business, and Marvin had no grounds to demand to know what went on during that period. Besides, Whizzer hadn’t _outwardly_ implied anything, hadn’t chosen particular words to get him all riled up like he used to when he came home late with vague reasons why. He was just stating facts.

 

“Didn’t know you knew anybody from Brooklyn.”

 

“You never asked,” Whizzer replies with faux innocence.

 

“There was never a _good time_.”

 

They both crack wry smiles, banter coming as naturally as though they’d only been apart a handful of hours than years. Whizzer shakes his head wearily, and Marvin tries not to stare as the other man’s smile widens to put faint dimples on display.

 

“We were never good with timing, were we?” Whizzer reminisces, hands wrapped around the steaming mug, and Marvin blithely shrugs his shoulders, expression of insouciance flitting across his face.

 

“There were _some_ well-timed moments,” he argues, head tilting to one side as he studies his unofficial date. It hadn’t been all bad, had it? Sure, most of their relationship had been fueled by temper and lust alone, but there had been quieter moments as well. They just got drowned out by louder memories is all.

 

“Like what?” Curiosity piques one of Whizzer’s fine eyebrows and Marvin scrambling for a good answer. Something that couldn’t be disputed.

 

“Valentine’s Day,” the words tumble ungracefully from his lips, and when Whizzer gives him a quizzical look to encourage him to continue, Marvin draws in a short breath, “Valentine’s Day went without a hitch. You were even ready on time for our dinner reservations.”

 

“Marvin, you bitched about how moronic Valentine’s Day was for _weeks_ prior.”

 

“Which made the reservation and flowers all the more surprising and romantic.”

 

“You’ve got a funny definition of romantic,” Whizzer scoffs, though not unkindly, “but it _was_ a nice night. You even wore cufflinks with your suit.”

 

Smirking over the brim of his mug, Marvin remembers. It was the only time he’d ever willing worn a suit. He’d never done anything special for Trina during their marriage, something he feels vaguely remorseful about now, and any other occasions that required suits were his wedding ( he’d gone into that less than willingly, only because Trina was pregnant ), and important business functions. The rest of the time he wore what Whizzer had always deemed ‘unflattering’ and ‘uncomplimentary’. He’d never seen Whizzer look so thrilled as when he stepped out to ask him for help with his tie.

 

“Haven’t worn them since,” he chuckles, and the forlorn sigh that leaves Whizzer’s lungs is highly melodramatic.

 

“Of course not.”

 

A moment of silence passes between them, Marvin finishes his coffee and Whizzer runs a fingertip along the edge of his cup.

 

“What did you ask me here for, Marv? Because I have a feeling it wasn’t just to shoot the breeze.”

 

Marvin blinks, eyebrows knotting as he looks up from his emptied mug. No, he hadn’t come just to play catch-up with Whizzer. Honestly, he’s not entirely sure what he’s here for. To apologize? To beg for Whizzer to give him a second chance? _No_ , he doesn’t beg. He’s got too much pride for that. But if there’s a chance Whizzer will give them another try, he just might plead.

 

“It was nice seeing you the other day,” he admits, eyes trained on Whizzer, searching for any shifts in expression as he continues, “And I wanted to know if you wanted to give this another shot.”

 

Whizzer’s silence is deafening, and Marvin’s waited with his breath held in suspense. _Please don’t say no, please don’t just smile and walk out that door, please don’t throw your coffee in my face—_

 

“It’s funny,” Whizzer finally says, slow and soft, “just a few days ago I was **_convinced_** you still hated my guts.”

 

Before Marvin can react, he pushes on, dry humor embedded in his facial features as they sit docile. He would not allow himself to be interrupted.

 

“But I guess even the most stubborn of people can learn to bend a bit. So I’ll give this another go. But I swear, if you make me do the cooking this time, I expect you to **eat** it and not just make _faces_ at it.”

 

Marvin laughs, a burst of relieved energy he has to clap a hand to his lips to stifle as to not disturb the entire cafe, and Whizzer rolls his eyes again.

 

“It’s a deal. Plus ‘Delia taught me a few recipes that I could actually handle making on my own, so I’m good for something other than takeout now.”

 

“Did you learn to put your clothes away and do the dishes yourself in the past couple of years, too?”

 

Whizzer’s smirking, and if Marvin weren’t so enormously relieved that Whizzer had actually agreed to take him back he’d have been offended.

 

“You’ll have to find that out for yourself.”


	5. Stronghold

Whizzer moves back in the following week, abandoning his place in Brooklyn on a smitten whim. Things are awkward at first, as they’ve got a good amount of catching up to do, and had settled into their own different routines in their time apart, but adverse tension is nowhere to be found. Marvin nearly drops his coffee mug in surprise the first time Whizzer strolls into the kitchen only half dressed before he has to leave for work, having slipped into the quiet pattern of preparation he starts when woken up by his alarm at six, and forgotten that Whizzer was _definitely_ there and he hadn’t just had a _really_ nice dream the night before. A groggy Whizzer, hair disheveled and sluggish grin on his face snorted and poured himself some coffee as Marvin reattained his wits. Whizzer trips over discarded suitcases and jackets and the new coffee table when navigating the living room in the dark, unable to keep cursing to a minimum when he bruises his shins when arriving home from a late photoshoot that ran past midnight. When Marvin teases him about watching his step, he makes a remark about how only _old men_ head to bed before midnight. The lights are kept on until he gets home after that.

 

They learn to laugh it off when things get awkward, and new routines are made. Nights that Marvin gets off early are automatically date nights if his day didn't go poorly, Tuesday nights are spent at Charlotte and Cordelia’s for dinner and drinks, they become regulars at the racquet ball courts ( Whizzer had insisted it would be fun ), and on the weekends they let Jason pick a movie and they all settle on the sofa to watch together. Jason will make himself comfortablewith a snack, legs tucked under himself on the far left side of the couch, while Marvin sits on the other side with Whizzer splayed out between them, head resting on his lover’s shoulder comfortably. Any attempts made to over-analyze the film by either father or son are quickly hushed in valiant effort to keep focus on what’s still happening on the screen.

 

A few weeks in, and it begins to feel as though it was this way forever. But now Marvin smiles more, smiles at Whizzer more, and Whizzer isn’t coming home with hickeys Marvin’s certain he didn’t make and smells like film developing chemicals instead of potent perfumes neither of them owned. Bickering still ensues, as expected, but it doesn’t turn volatile or antagonistic. There’s no shoving and no nasty words exchanged, and they learn to take a step back when things start to careen in an ugly direction. Whizzer tells Marvin to pick up the heaps of clothes that collect on their bedroom floor ( “I guess you _didn’t_ learn to take care of your clothes after all,” he’d lamented ), and they’ll call each other out onany bull pulled. It’s an even amount of push and pull, the balance they’d been lacking before finally established and it grounds them without any passion being sacrificed in the process. It’s not perfect, but it’s as close as either of them have ever gotten to such a thing.

 

It’s a Sunday night, and as Trina and Mendel step inside to pick Jason up and to further discuss the impending bar mitzvah, Whizzer scoots the kid into the other room once greetings are exchanged ( he’s met with little resistance ). According to Jason, this discussion has been going on for months already, and while Mendel’s been of great help, his parents can’t seem to agree on anything about his party. Whizzer’s never been largely involved in religion, but he knows it has value, as both his mother and father stressed it’s importance while he was still living under their roof. Of course, it’s part of the reason he _stopped_ living under their roof so early on, but he’d rather not dwell on it. Regardless, Jason seems to think this whole party is a big deal, and it’s clearly stressing him out to watch his parents argue so intensely over something that was supposed to be enjoyable and important to him, so Whizzer decides to let Mendel mediate while he takes Jason aside. He’ll distract the kid while things get settled enough for him to be able to suggest something and be heard.

 

“What’s your dad got against the Applebaums, anyways?”

 

The two of them are in Whizzer and Marvin’s room, laid horizontally on the bed, Jason’s hands clasped on his stomach and Whizzer’s are tucked behind his head, careful not to disrupt meticulously styled hair. Muffled voices are almost entirely inaudible from behind the closed door.

 

“I dunno,” Jason admits with an indifferent shrug of his shoulders, “We went to one of their holiday parties or something, and I guess Mr. Applebaum said something Dad didn’t like, because we left maybe a half hour after we got there.”

 

“I bet your mom wasn’t thrilled.”

 

“Nope. She was _pretty_ mad. Said he was being ‘unreasonable’.”

 

“Sounds like your dad to me,” Whizzer chuckles, staring at the ceiling. Jason makes a noise that he assumes is in agreement.

 

“Do _**you**_ want them at your bar mitzvah? Doesn’t seem like you know them too well,” he ventures further, raising his eyebrows as he finally turns his head to look at the thirteen year old. He’s met with another uncertain shrug.

 

“I guess. The more people, the better the party, right?”

 

Jason cracks a smile that mirrors the one spreading across Whizzer’s face that is more or less a touch proud. The more people, the bigger the party; more people equates to more _gifts_. Makes sense the kid would have the mindset. Whizzer’s tempted to give him a ‘religion is what this whole thing is supposed to be about’ spiel, but decides he’s probably not the best person to give such a speech. Trina can take care of that. Marvin’s religious, but skeptically so, and Mendel finds the whole concept absurd, but Trina seems fully immersed in the culture, so she’d be the one Whizzer assumes would attempt to correct Jason’s line of thinking. Whether or not Jason would _actually_ be convinced that this bar mitzvah was anything more than a party where he’s on the receiving end of a long line of presents and money is to be determined, but Whizzer won’t concern himself with that. He’d never had one, his parents so torn between a bar mitzvah and confirmation that nothing had come from their bickering in the end. Not that it bothered Whizzer much, of course, considering he’d been told by both that what he was ( who he _loved_ ) was wrong. Believe **neither** , and he’s in the _**right**_ , he figures.

 

“Yeah. Tell your mom you want them to come and that should be the deciding factor. I’ll see if I can talk some sense into your dad. If he’s got any other problems with people you want to come, let me know. I’ll take care of it.”

 

Jason looks genuinely interested in this bar mitzvah now, propped up on his elbows, which reassures Whizzer that he’s talking on the right track. There was very little he couldn't sweet talk Marvin into, sweet talking being a skill he’d been practicing for years, and if it was something as trivial as who attended Jason’s party, Whizzer’s confident he could get a reluctant _‘fine’_ out of his lover. Plus he might get the full story on the Applebaum Incident out of Marvin while he’s at it, too. A good story was hard to find around here, considering _**they**_ were probably the subject of most gossip in the neighborhood.

 

“You mean it?”

 

“Of course I do, kid,” Whizzer assures, following suit and propping himself up, “This is _your_ thing, not theirs.”

 

Jason let out some sort of hybrid between a sigh of relief and triumphant yell, throwing his hands up in the air and letting himself fall onto his back again, and Whizzer blinks in startled amusement.

 

“ _Thank_ you. _Someone_ gets it. Mendel helps calm Mom and Dad down, but one of them always gets their way anyways. They barely even ask **me** what I want!” Jason’s words are crammed together in one breath, and Whizzer’s convinced it’s the most he’s heard this kid say at once, and animatedly to boot.

 

“Well, what _do_ you want?”

 

The question causes Jason to pause, as though he hadn’t really given it thorough thought. Was there a theme he wanted for the party? Were there specific people he wanted to come, just because he wanted to see them? Sure, there were the pretty girls in his class he wanted to impress, but he ran the risk of weirding them out. Really, the only people he saw anymore were his parents ( Mendel now included ), Whizzer, and his father’s neighbors. He saw his friends from baseball from time to time, but now that the season had ended, less so. He wouldn’t mind if a couple of them came. He knew his teammate Adam ( who lived down the street from the Weisenbachfelds ) was pretty well off and that his mother liked giving presents she knew would impress. At least that was what he’d heard Trina say once before. But outside of that, he’s not sure what he wants.

 

“I dunno,” he admits, “I mean, it’s all pretty much planned anyways.”

 

“We have time. I’m sure they’d be able to squeeze some more names onto the guest list or throw some extra balloons or whatever into the mix, too.”

 

“ _Balloons?_ ”

 

“Were those not part of the plan?”

 

“I wouldn’t know. No one’s told me what the plan is yet.”

 

“I don’t think there _is_ an actual plan yet,” Whizzer snickers, shaking his head wearily as he pushes himself to sit up with ease, offering Jason a hand for help up, “but it sounds like the arguing’s died down. Should be safe to go back out now.”

 

Taking the offered hand and pulling himself upright, Jason smiles, round cheeks dimpling. They push themselves off the bed and onto their feet, and Whizzer opens the door to allow subdued voices from down the hall to float into the room.

 

“Thanks, Whizzer.”

 

Cracking a fond smile, Whizzer ruffles the kid’s hair and gives him nudge so he can shut the bedroom door behind them. He might not be good with kids, but he was good with the one that mattered. As Mendel ushered Jason and a slightly huffy Trina out the door, Whizzer plopped himself onto the couch, waving goodbye before glancing at Marvin, whose eyes were still trained on the doorway, irritability still clinging to how he held himself. With a sigh, Whizzer pat the space beside him on the sofa expectantly, and almost absentmindedly, Marvin took a seat, dropping his folded arms.

 

“This is getting exhausting,” the father complained, running a hand through his hair, and Whizzer can’t help but roll his eyes.

 

“Neither of you are making the situation any easier by going at each other’s throats every time the subject comes up. Which is weekly.”

 

“Oh _please_ , we’re not that bad,” Marvin scoffs, sitting rigidly upright and looking somewhat offended on his own behalf, “Trina and I are friendlier than we used to be!”

 

“And you show this by bickering over the color of the napkins?”

 

“She wanted _**pink**_ napkins, Whizzer.”

 

“Oh, believe me, I was ready to make some popcorn and watch the heated color debate unfold, but _Jason_ didn’t seem as entertained.”

 

At the mention of his son, Marvin allows a small wince to crinkle his features. His body drops all tension and he leans against the couch, listless.

 

“I just want what’s best for the kid,” he sighs, turning his head to look at Whizzer, who just nods, though his expression betrays his facade of belief, “Okay, so I want this to reflect well on _myself_ too, but this is Jason’s—“

 

“ ** _—Jason’_ s** bar mitzvah,” Whizzer finishes for him, pointedly, “Yet, in the last few encounters I’ve had the pleasure of witnessing, he hasn’t been consulted for a single decision.”

 

For a moment it seems as though Marvin is going to sour, but he only shakes his head and gives Whizzer’s shoulder a gentle shove.

 

“Since when are you the insightful one?”

 

“He’s thirteen, Marv. They wear their emotions on their sleeve, it’s hardly a matter of insight.”

 

Marvin raises his eyebrows, suddenly interested and shifts his weight to angle himself towards Whizzer. Noticing, Whizzer raises his chin in suspicion to this new interest. He knew that look, the one flickering across his lover’s face.

 

“What were _you_ like when you were Jason’s age?”

 

Choking on a laugh, Whizzer shakes his head, and moves to get up with a smirk on his face. His past was his, and he liked keeping it a mystery— if he had his way, Marvin wouldn’t see a damn picture from his birth through his freshman year of high school.

 

“Wouldn’t you like to know.”

 

“That’s why I _asked—_ ,” but it’s too late, Whizzer’s on his feet and headed towards the kitchen. Marvin sighs laboriously and unties his tie as he follows close behind. He’ll get answers someday. For now, he’ll just attempt to make his case against pink napkins to Whizzer’s semi-attentive ear.


	6. Domesticity

It’s a Tuesday night, Marvin and Whizzer have just returned from a few rounds of racquetball ( Whizzer having won every round with a boastful grin on his face as per usual ), Charlotte would be arriving home in a matter of minutes, when the distinct scent of something burning took to the air. A distressed noise sounds through the wall from the neighboring apartment, and after concerned expressions are exchanged, Whizzer promptly bolts out the door with Marvin close behind. They push through the door to Cordelia and Charlotte’s apartment, greeted with an even stronger whiff of singed air, worry clear in their faces, even while scrunched in repulsion.

 

“ _—‘Delia?_ Everything alright?”

 

Marvin’s voice hangs between them for a moment before a tightly strung voice calls back from the kitchen.

 

“You’re early!”

 

Cautiously, the pair move through the living room to poke their heads into the kitchen, still donned in gym attire. Standing in the middle of the kitchen, blackened dish in oven-mitt clad hands and flecks of unidentifiable ingredients sticking to her cheeks and clinging to eyelashes and curls, Cordelia looks distraught. It takes her a moment to notice them hovering, and sets the dish down on the counter, ignoring the small sharp inhale Whizzer makes when he realizes there’s going to be black marks on the nice marble countertop when what he assumes was going to be their dinner is removed.

 

“Well, you’re _hardly_ dressed for dinner,” she observes, a note of acute hysteria in her tone as she forces a choked smile and rubs her palms against her stained apron, “I’ll have everything cleaned up in a jiffy, you go change. I’ve got _everything_ under control.”

 

Marvin stares at her warily while Whizzer coughs into his arm, easily passed off as if it’s caused by the small trail of smoke rising from the lump hardened in the pan. Cordelia clearly did _**not**_ have this under control, and Marvin wasn’t going to leave her to clean this all on her own. Or leave before knowing that she was genuinely okay. What kind of friend would he be if he did?

 

“Here, _we’ll_ help. And if you want, we could always order in. There’s no shame in taking a break every once in a while,” he offers, and Whizzer nods in agreement from behind him as though he'd had a say in the matter. Cordelia practically wilts, bottom lip trembling slightly, causing both men to stand at alarm.

 

“We shouldn’t _need_ to order in! We should be settling around the table for a nice broccoli kugel dinner,” she bemoans, eyes moving to her defeated dish in humiliated agony, “Charlotte’s gonna be home any minute and this place is a mess!”

 

“So we’ll help you clean it up, and look up what places deliver. You can try for the broccoli kugel again _next_ week,” Whizzer replies, already moving to dispose of the intended meal, offering her a consoling smile. Marvin wets the cleanest hand cloth he can find and hands it to Cordelia for her to clean herself up with before turning to make sure the oven was off and there was no further danger of a fire.

 

They’re almost done cleaning up and, despite further insistences from Cordelia that she could whip something else up, about to decide who to call for food when Charlotte slips through the door. Her nose crinkles subtly, the burnt smell still clinging to the apartment air, even after they had cracked a window open, but offers a careful smile when Cordelia moves to greet her.

 

“ _Hi,_ ” Cordelia practically sings, draping her arms around her lover’s neck with a hint of embarrassment lying in the way her eyebrows knit together, “You wouldn’t mind if we ordered in tonight, would you?”

 

Charlotte raises her eyebrows, though there’s more concern than surprise in her expression. It wasn’t uncommon for her to return home and smell something funky— it was, however, uncommon for **take out** to be suggested.

 

“Is everything alright? Is our _kitchen_ alright?”

 

“Kitchen’s just fine,” Whizzer calls from the room in question, stark white shirt and gym shorts smeared with indistinguishable crap that he’d lament about later. Charlotte blinks as both Marvin and Whizzer, still clad in sweatbands and tight shorts slip past her into the hallway so they could change for dinner, explanations to come around the table. Cordelia just supplies a sheepish smile and gives her lover a peck on the lips in hopes of distracting her from any lingering traces of a mess. Charlotte just smirks and picks a small clump of egg from golden curls with thorough amusement.

 

The fact that Whizzer had simply waltzed his way back into Marvin’s life hadn’t interrupted Tuesday night dinners spent at Charlotte and Cordelia’s apartment next door in the least bit. In fact, all three would agree he adds more life to the previously quiet and mellow gatherings. They drink, Marvin’s noticed that Whizzer doesn’t drink _half_ the amount he used to, which had been excessive at best, and they laugh, and they do their best to enjoy Cordelia’s dinners. Sometimes they’re easier to stomach, when she isn’t trying something entirely new, but more often than not she’s trying a new recipe from an ancient cookbook that’s barely legible in its old age. No one has the heart to tell her the truth when she asks if they like the meal she’s made. Cordelia always beams with pride and digs in without hesitation.

 

The four always lounge around the living room once dinner is through, wine glasses in hand as they catch up. Everything is discussed, nothing is left off the table. They mull over the weather, work, neighbors, and more than even they can all keep track of once the drinks flush their cheeks. Whizzer keeps everyone laughing, to the point where Cordelia once had to excuse herself to cackle in the other room until she could catch her breath again. Charlotte dives into stories from the hospital, most of which they can all follow until she begins to throw lengthy medical terms around, and Marvin speaks of his dull coworkers ( Whizzer pretends to doze off every time and Marvin shoots him A Look every time ). Charades is suggested once, but it becomes so unruly in their competitiveness that a neighbor comes knocking to ask them quiet down, so they don’t attempt it a second time. Gossip and idle chatter is much quieter for the most part.

 

Charlotte and Cordelia had taken to Whizzer quickly, despite their hesitance shown at the baseball game. Once they had a chance to meet him, spend time with him, and watch as Marvin’s moodiness is turned right around, it’s as though they’d known each other for years. While Marvin and Charlotte are at work, and when Whizzer doesn’t have any shoots scheduled for the day, he’ll hang around with Cordelia as she cooks, quickly becoming her favorite taste-tester. When he returns home a little pale and reluctant to eat at the end of the day, Marvin doesn’t question it. Before Whizzer had moved back in, he and Charlotte had shared taste-testing duties, so he thoroughly understood the sour feeling in one’s stomach after spending hours trying slightly overcooked kosher dishes. Turns out, she serves better drinks than meals, her skill in making drinks something she picked up during her time as a bartender when she was fresh out of college. Whizzer discovers that Charlotte is a _phenomenal_ listener and makes a habit of visiting to rant to her if something is on his mind. More often than not, it’s something petty or trivial, but she listens and offers advice all the same. Whether he accepts and utilizes said advice is an entirely different matter, but it’s appreciated all the same.

 

Tonight, following dinner and the exciting moment preceding it, they opt to hang around for a shorter amount of time than normal. They’re all at the bottom of their wine glasses when Marvin mentions he has an early meeting the next morning, and Charlotte remembers she’s on for a morning shift as well. Reluctantly, they exchange their goodbyes, Cordelia quietly thanks Marvin and Whizzer for their help with kisses to their cheeks, and get ready to settle into their respective nightly routines.

 

It’s only been a couple months, but domesticity has been rooted in Whizzer’s life to the point where he can’t deny it, and if he was being honest, it _scared_ him. It was new, and as happy as it made him feel to know he had a place, a person to come back to at the end of the day, it was nothing he’d ever imagined for himself. It made him feel _old_. Almost as much as he slowly receding hairline did. But more often than not, the good outweighed the bad. There was a tenderness to this domesticity, something else that was unfamiliar to him until now. Especially when it came to Marvin. Marvin, who has been used to a somewhat domestic life for over a decade already. Was Whizzer himself in for a decade more of this? As he slipped into bed, hair pushed aside and drowsiness already laying claim on him ( he blamed getting tired more frequently on this getting older thing, too, though he’s not entirely sure that’s the root of the problem ), he decides that maybe, _just_ maybe, none of that’s bad. That maybe there’s nothing to be afraid of.

 

Wrapping his arms around Marvin, who’s bookmarked his page in whatever novel he’s on now and set it aside and has instinctively placed his hands over his lover’s, Whizzer decides that settling _isn’t_ all that bad. The passion and thrill still play major roles in their relationship,  simply screwing has turned into love making ( they've both internally come to that conclusion ), but it's all balanced by softness and compassion this time around.

 

“I love you.”

 

Words crawl past Marvin’s lethargic lips, sincere even in their monotony, and while it certainly isn’t the first time he’s heard the words from his lover ( the first being a few days after he’d moved back in, which had caught him entirely by surprise and almost caused him to choke on his coffee ), it didn’t fail to make Whizzer’s lips curl into boyish smile.

 

“Love you too, Marv.”


	7. Check Up

“ _—Hello?_ Anybody home?”

 

Call is accompanied by a leisurely knock on apartment 413’s door, knuckles rapping against wood in polite afterthought. A voice hails from the other side of the obstruction, its singsong tone floats through the air and puts a smile on a waiting Whizzer’s face.

 

“Come on in, Whiz!”

 

Knowing from the muffled quality of her voice that Cordelia was in the kitchen and probably had her hands full, Whizzer pushes the door open to let himself in. Intuition proves to be correct, and he follows cheery humming to the kitchen, passing through the spacious living room and running a fingertip along the edge of the plush lavender couch that occupied most of the space, minimalistic as its design was. Cordelia greets him with a beam that could put sunshine to sunshine to shame, stirring the mixture in the green ceramic bowl she held with a wooden spoon and vigor. Every available space is occupied by a brightly colored container or plate, and the amount of smells wafting through the air is nearly overwhelming— Cordelia, to Whizzer’s internal astonishment, is unfazed. Not pausing in her stirring she gives him a careful look over, and he could swear he sees brief hesitation flicker across her features.

 

“Hey, Delia,” he says, impeding before she can open her mouth to further welcome him into her little corner of the world, knowing full well what kind of question would follow it— _something_ was **off**. Not just with him, but in general, and it was becoming more and more difficult to maintain normalcy, “Smells good in here. Bar Mitzvah business coming along _well_ , I assume?”

 

Momentarily distracted, Cordelia nods and tight curls bob with the movement.

 

“ _Yes!_ It’s going **great**. I’ve gone through more flour than I think I’ve used in my entire career, but it’ll be worth it in the end, I’m sure,” she explains sunnily, gesturing to the flour dusting the countertops that Whizzer ensured he maintained distance from for his new blazer’s sake. He didn’t need to look up how to remove flour from his sleeve right now, he had more pressing matters at hand; he had finished off the last of the Aspirin and Tylenol sitting in Marvin’s medicine cabinet ( not that there had been much left in either bottle when he went looking for them to begin with ) and his head was pounding with a headache that was, for once, _not_ something residual of a drink ( or four ).

 

“ _Well_ these donuts look good enough to—“

 

“Don’t you _**dare**_ touch those donuts, Whizzer Brown, or you’ll be walking out of here with enough flour on you to stir up _haunting rumors_ in the building.”

 

Wandering fingers pull away from the dish of mini donuts as though they’d been smacked with a ruler and a childish pout pushes dejectedly at Whizzer’s lips. He’s not entirely sure he could’ve kept a donut down at the moment, anyways, what with the way his stomach had been acting up. But the hint of a smile that threatens to break Cordelia’s stern facade is enough to make the scolding worth it.

 

“I’d make a _handsome_ ghost,” he retorts, “And I’d have some satisfied ghostly taste buds, too. But for the sake of my **_very_** expensive blazer, I’ll obey.”

 

Satisfied with his response, though Whizzer doesn’t miss the amused roll of her eyes, Cordelia sets her garish bowl on the counter and wipes her sticky hands on her apron.

 

“I assume you didn’t come here to _sneak treats,_ ” she muses, tone knowing in the way it hints at an underlying motive. Her eyes are cautiously looking him over again, and he ignores the unease it causes him; he’s never had a problem with prying eyes before, no gaze has ever deterred him until recently, all attention welcomed before now. But there’s something about the scrutiny he’s on the receiving end of in this moment that puts him on the defensive. Shifting his hands to their set places on his hips, shifting his weight to one leg, Whizzer supplies her with true intent.

 

“ _Nah_ , I came to see if you guys had anything for headaches around. We just ran out.”

 

Cordelia stills, face falling in a way that makes Whizzer want to grab his words out of the air and force them back to where they came from. There’s blatant concern in knotting eyebrows, and in an effort to avoid her gaze, he watches as she wrings her hand nervously, fingers catching on one another sporadically. He’s seen the news, heard the rumors, watched as Charlotte’s demeanor became increasingly more desolate as the weeks dragged on; he knows what’s going through Cordelia’s head.

 

“You look _paler_ than usual,” voice suddenly soft, having lost all playfulness in lieu of worry she wears plainly, “I think we’ve got some Tylenol in the drawer over there, but are you sure that’s all you need?”

 

Hands move faster than his reflexes can kick in, and her palms are pressed against flushed skin fretfully. Unable to suppress a whine, Whizzer pulls his head away and moves towards the drawer she’d gestured to a moment prior, ignoring the small stab of guilt that felt like a sandwich pick had pricked his heart when the distress on Cordelia’s face only intensifies.

 

“I’m _fine_ , Delia. Trina’s gonna be dropping Jason off soon, and since Marvin’s at work, **_I’ve_** gotta be there to make sure he doesn’t get into any trouble. I don’t have time for anything else,” he dismisses her worries, plucking the bottle from the cluttered drawer after a couple of seconds spent rummaging through miscellaneous objects that had been absentmindedly discarded during an intense cooking session.

 

“We both know Jason is perfectly capable of being on his own for a few minutes,” she counters, arms crossed to keep fingers from tangling themselves together again.

 

Before he can open his mouth to insist he’s feeling perfectly fine and that she’s wasting her time worrying over something as simple as a headache, the sound of the door opening and closing causes them both to pause. Cordelia it struck with opportunity; Whizzer stares her down with a _‘don’t you dare’_ kind of stare that would make the mother he copied it from very proud.

 

“Charlotte, we have a _visitor!_ ”

 

Charlotte, who’s only just shrugged her coat off and hung it on a hook doesn’t need to guess who the visitor is— more often than not, Whizzer’s hanging around their apartment to keep Cordelia company and himself entertained. What concerns her, however, is the note of strain in her lover’s tone. Cordelia’s ushering one displeased Whizzer into the living room before Charlotte even has a chance to move from her position by the door, and for a moment she’s convinced that Whizzer had broken Cordelia’s favorite dish based on their expressions— Cordelia’s distress and Whizzer’s impatience that mirrors a child’s when they’ve been caught in the aftermath of a bad deed and don't care enough to hear their punishment.

 

“I’m doing this because I _care_ , Whizzer,” Cordelia justifies, chin raised before she chews nervously on her bottom lip, conveying her concern to Charlotte in an exasperated glance.

 

“Could you care a little _quieter_? You never let me take the Tylenol,” Whizzer complains from his spot on the sofa, rubbing his temples with the heels of his palms in hopes of soothing the splitting headache instead of giving Cordelia the reproachful look he didn’t have the energy to put on his face.

 

Understanding passes between Charlotte and Cordelia without a syllable needing to be spoken, and Whizzer can feel the sofa dip beside him as Charlotte rigidly took a seat. Picking his head up he sees her hands are tightly clasp in her lap, expression wary in a way he’s only seen a handful of times before. Suddenly, he feels like a patient, and he’s tempted to walk _right_ out the door. She makes no move to touch him, which he’s grateful for, but the tone of voice she adopts is full of professional apprehension that makes his skin crawl under the thin layer of sweat beginning to add a sheen to his usually flawless tanned skin under the two pairs of watchful eyes.

 

“Has there been anything **besides** this headache that’s been bothering you?”

 

He lies and tells her that there isn’t. Whizzer had been careful to hide the small rashes littering the skin along his neck and underarms, and his constant loss of appetite was blamed on his own poor cooking abilities as he pushed perfectly edible food around his plate. Charlotte eyes the looseness of his shirt and the paleness of his skin and pushes on.

 

“Whizzer, have you been feeling at all _feverish_ lately?”

 

He lies and tells her he hasn’t. His body temperature hadn’t seemed to stop climbing the last few days, and there was a slim chance that Marvin hadn’t already noticed the night sweats that have plagued him for almost a week now ( he hopes that’s _all_  Marvin has noticed, hopes that Marvin can’t tell anything else is wrong ). Nausea is as frequent a visitor as hunger used to be; didn’t seem like a fair trade to Whizzer. Cordelia doesn’t look convinced and has begun wringing her hands as though she could still feel his scalding skin under her fingertips. She casts him a nervous glance before moving back into the kitchen to pick up her bowl of forgotten batter and stir it further.

 

“So it’s _just_ the headache? And you’re positive that’s **_all_** this is?” Charlotte looks as close to scared as he’s ever seen her, and there’s something about the way this usually unwavering woman looks genuinely afraid that makes his gut twist with nausea. She’s heard so many stories, so many obituaries have passed through her fingers via newspaper, it’s no wonder she’s so concerned— but Whizzer’s _convinced_ this is the flu. He doesn’t get sick often, it must just be that when he does catch something, it hits him hard. That’s all. Nothing to fret or fuss over.

 

Parting his lips slightly as he draws in a breath to assure her his lies were true, he chokes on cough and lips draw together in a thinly pressed line to suppress it. Wishing it away doesn’t work, and he can feel Charlotte’s eyes burning into him with acute perception ( who was he to try and fool a _doctor_? ) as he fights to keep his cough trapped in his lungs. Charlotte narrows her eyes, knowingly rather than unkindly, and Whizzer allows the cough to rise and covers it with the crook of his elbow. One cough turns into a fit that draws Cordelia back out from the kitchen, flower flaking off her curls as she hurries to drop a glass of water on the coffee table in front of him before pressing fingertips to her lips in worry. The fit practically winds him, but he’s on his feet after a moment of struggle ( so subtle even Charlotte would’ve missed it had she not been watching him so sharply ) and takes a swig of the glass of water and tries to excuse himself. Suddenly lightheaded once a move towards the door is made, Charlotte is easing him back down onto the sofa in a heartbeat’s time, hand gentle on his back and unarticulated dread welling in her eyes.

 

“Look, I need to get over there before Trina comes knocking,” he insists with a hasty check of his watch, patience lost to denial, “Can we keep this between **us**? It’s just a headache, at the very worst the flu. Nothing to be so worked up about. And _definitely_ nothing to worry **_Marvin_** about.”

 

“You can’t keep this from _Marvin_ ,” Cordelia argues, plucking the emptied glass from the coffee table, undisturbed by the ring of droplets it left behind on finished wood, “Besides, he’ll figure it out eventually!”

 

“Then **let** him piece it together on his own. That’s what he _prefers_ doing, anyways. He likes figuring things out himself instead of being told directly, it makes him feel smart,” Whizzer mumbled, running a hand through his hair, mucking up carefully styled coiffure. Charlotte’s frown deepens.

 

“Whizzer, you need to _rest_ ,” she presses, which elicits an exasperated noise from Whizzer, who’s back on his feet, struggling less to stand this time.

 

“All I **do** is hang around the apartment, Charlotte. Resting is basically my part-time job this time of year,” he insists dryly, headed for the door, “Now I _need_ to go watch Jason. Feel free to drop by, just don’t say anything to him or Marv, okay? This’ll pass in a couple days. Don’t need to get them all worked up for nothing.”

 

His hand is on the doorknob when Cordelia makes a sound that’s a hybrid between a chirp and a shout, causing him to pause, having deciphered it as a _‘wait!’_. She ducks into the kitchen for a moment before remerging with a small bundle she places in the palm of his hand with an unnerved smile that makes his heart twist— he didn’t want to be that cause of _that_. Glancing down to see the bottle of Tylenol and a mini donut resting in a napkin in his hand, he offers her a repentant smile.

 

“ _Thanks_. Both of you. I’ll see you around.”

 

Usual energy restores itself for a second to offer them a charming lopsided smile and wink ( his usual parting gesture ) before closing the door behind him. Once he’s out of the room, Cordelia allows a shuddering sigh to leave her lips as she moves behind the sofa to wrap her arms around Charlotte, comforting.

 

Whizzer’s just barely shut the door to Marvin and his apartment and set Cordelia’s gifts on the counter when a knock sounds on his door— Trina and Jason, punctual as per usual. Drawing in a deep breath to steady himself and keep a healthy smile on his lips for Jason’s sake if nothing else, Whizzer readies himself for the weekend. He could fall asleep with his head in Marvin’s lap during the movie later and blame it on the movie choice ( it was Marvin’s turn to pick this time, and Marvin _always_ chose something dreadfully **boring** ); no one would think anything of it and he’d be able to get his Doctor-Recommended rest. Everything would be alright.

 

“Come on in!”


	8. Equivocal Truth

Marvin comes home a few hours later to find Jason and Whizzer lounging on the sofa in front of a television set withM*A*S*H playing on it’s screen. Both turn their heads to the door to murmur distracted greetings before returning to their program. Dropping his coat on the coatrack by the door, a habit formed after being given a number of pointed looks from Whizzer before being allowed a kiss, Marvin squints at the screen skeptically.

 

“How long have you been watching this?”

 

Eyes trained on the screen, both Whizzer and Jason shrug their shoulders as Marvin deposits his bag on a hook below his jacket. He’ll never understand their fixation; he could enjoy movies— but it was _far_ more enjoyable to watch things at the cinema. That was when it became an experience and really **stuck** the way it was intended to.

 

“It’s only been on for a half hour, Dad.”

 

Marvin sighs and maintains patience as he moves behind the red leather sofa to ruffle his son’s hair and press a kiss to the top of Whizzer’s head.

 

“I meant how long have you been staring at that screen like _zombies_?” He clarifies with a weary chuckle.

 

“Zombies don’t laugh at slapstick,” Whizzer protests, finally breaking his concentration to look at Marvin with insincere indignation while Jason nodded in agreement beside him.

 

“Whizzer said if I finished my homework early we could watch tv until you came home. So I did, and we have.”

 

“ _Well_ ,” Marvin draws the word out as he moves towards the kitchen, one that was far more organized and less chaotic than their neighbor’s, realizing that it looked too orderly to have been used recently, “At least homework got done, because apparently **dinner** hasn’t.”

 

From the couch, Whizzer visibly cringes.

 

“I forgot!” he calls, arms that had been draped leisurely across the back of the sofa move to his lap as his shoulders sag, “Went to visit Cordelia and lost track of time.”

 

“How long were you over there?” Marvin sifts through the mail sitting on the counter ( at least Whizzer had remembered to get _that_ ), dubious expression knotting thick eyebrows. It wasn’t Whizzer’s job to cook for them both on the daily anymore, but even when he decided he didn’t want to deal with cooking, he’d order in ahead of time. The fact that Jason had been coming over earlier should have at least kept him on his toes enough to think about _dinner_ , especially considering he had been aware Marvin would be working later than normal that night. Something didn’t line up, and Marvin can’t place it, which frustrated him more than he could articulate.

 

“Maybe an hour, give or take some time.”

 

Odd. He was usually there longer, according to the stories Charlotte has told him. Which _also_ didn’t add up.

 

“And instead of trying to make something, you sat on the couch and watched TV?” he prompts, but only gets a dry look in response, “Well, I’m sure there’s a couple of places still open to call for delivery. How does pizza sound?”

 

“Marvin, you _hate_ pizza.”

 

“I’ll fix something up for myself.”

 

“In that case, pizza sounds _**fantastic**_.”

 

Marvin almost allows amusement to push perturbed thoughts clean away, picking up the landline as Jason lets out an enthusiastic whoop. Whizzer chuckles and cushions a cough with the crook of his elbow, returning his attention to the screen, where the end of the episode continued to play out at a loud volume. Twirling the spiral cord along his index finger as he waited for the pizza place to pick up, Marvin gives his lover a close look over. Before he can form any calculated thoughts about what he sees, a young man’s voice is in his ear asking for his order and disrupts his contemplating. He orders a large plain pizza and hangs up at the same time Jason turns the dial to power off the television set. Glancing between the adults, sensing an unspoken disquiet between them, which Whizzer didn’t seem to feel, and not wanting to get involved, Jason makes his escape from thickening air.

 

“I’m gonna go reorganize my baseball cards,” he announces with nonchalance, already headed towards his room, “Call me when the pizza’s here!”

 

“You got it, kid,” Whizzer replies, not moving from where he lunged on the sofa as he waved Jason off. It was no surprise to either man that this was how Jason wanted to spend his time— chess has taken somewhat of a backseat to baseball since his team’s victory, and now that Jason has taken up trading his cards he finds it _necessary_ to reorganize them whenever he comes home from school with new player cards. Marvin has expressed his bewilderment to Whizzer before, unable to understand his son’s fascination, always having been a football man himself, to which Whizzer just laughed and told him to just be glad that Jason was being more social. It wasn’t rare for Jason to pull his nice chess set out every now and again, though. No matter how Whizzer wheedled, Jason always insisted on being the one to play with the white pawns.

 

Jason’s door closes with a soft click, and Marvin moves deeper into the kitchen to start fixing himself up a meal. Pulling containers of leftovers from the fridge, figuring that if he didn’t have them now they’d spoil in the fridge and stink it up, Marvin carries conversation. As he shifted the contents of one thing of tupperware to his place, he tests the water.

 

“So, what **did** you get done today?”

 

Whizzer’s hitched sigh prompts an eye roll, Marvin’s question practically answered for him. It wasn’t uncommon for him to be subjected to complaints about how bored his lover got while sitting around at home. When he offered suggestions for activities to go out and do, he was consistently shut down; if not by word, repulsed expressions got the objection across. Marvin hadn’t missed the new collection of Central Park photographs that had been absent-mindedly laid out on the coffee table, though— it’d been _his_ idea for Whizzer to go out and take some pictures of his own inspiration instead of paid sessions to shoot something specific. But there was no evidence of any productivity around the apartment tonight, not even a trace of reorganization, which he could add to his list of things that struck him funnily.

 

“I updated my photo album,” Whizzer asserts futilely, causing Marvin to pause as he popped his plate into the microwave. Jabbing his finger at a couple buttons and letting it run its time, he moves to the doorway of the living room, arms crossed as he leans against the open door frame. He must look as unconvinced as he felt, because Whizzer’s defensive air recedes at the sight of his face.

 

“Okay, so maybe I _didn’t_ update my photo album. But I _**did**_ do the dishes.”

 

A scoff flies past Marvin’s lips, amused. He’s been dying to get a glimpse of the contents of said photo album for months, but any time he so much as suggests taking a peek, Whizzer frowns and dismisses the idea with petulance. What photos are in it are an utter mystery to him, and Marvin didn’t like secrets. Whizzer notoriously _loved_ secrets— having information Marvin didn’t was something of a power, and power meant he got to be haughtier than usual. Not that Marvin was afraid of anything Whizzer had in between the covers of that dated album, of course. They were pictures, how much blackmail material could Whizzer really be hiding in there? But the wicked knowing smile that slid across Whizzer’s lips whenever it was mentioned kept him intrigued— which was probably the intent of such a ploy.

 

“I still want to see what you’re keeping in that old photo album,” he muses, returning to the microwave as it beeped for his attention and ignoring the fact that the sink still had a couple dishes sitting in it. He was certain there was more piled up when he left for work this morning, so it was allowed to slide if some progress had been made. A little productivity was better than the meek amounts that had begun to form a pattern in the last week or so.

 

“You’ll have to pry it out of my _cold, dead fingers_ before you get to see what’s in it,” Whizzer calls after him, jeering without any real snideness to his words. Marvin chuckled wearily and shook his head, pulling a warmed plate from the microwave with careful fingers. It was incredible, really, how stubborn his lover could be. Then again, he was his own shade of stubborn, so perhaps he shouldn’t judge.

 

“ _Honestly_ , Whizzer,” he sighs chidingly, plate in one hand as the other plucked a fork from the dish drainer, and exited the kitchen to sit beside his partner on the sofa, careful to keep his food over the coffee table to avoid nagging reminders of how nice the couch was, “You don’t have to be morbid about it. Jason is in the other room.”

 

“And _he_ won’t see the album either,” Whizzer quipped, with notably less energy, sidling up to Marvin as soon as he was situated, leaning his weight comfortably against his side. Marvin pretended to be bothered by it, but didn’t really mind all that much— Whizzer didn’t seem like he was about to move even if he’d vocalized his displeasure, anyways. Besides, the extra warmth that came from the closeness was always welcome. They remain like that in comfortable silence for a handful of minutes, Marvin idly working away at his dinner that looked, in an opinion Whizzer didn’t need to voice anymore, as appetizing as though he’d been the one to actually make it. But leftovers from dinner at Cordelia’s, which Charlotte was insistent they take on an almost weekly basis, were leftovers, and that was better than nothing.

 

“Did anybody call while I was out?” Marvin asks, poking at his dinner, eyebrows raised. No one usually called him here, but he didn’t like leaving things to chance. One missed call could cost him a client, and as much as he hated allotting aspects of his work to other people, he had to trust that Whizzer would know to take any calls received seriously ( and take note of who called and how to contact them ). Whizzer had complained once of feeling like a secretary, to which Marvin had only smirked and assured him he made a ‘very pretty’ secretary.

 

“Just Trina.”

 

“What did she want?”

 

“An entire bottle of wine, from what I could gather.”

 

“ _Whizzer_ ,” Marvin admonishes with a frown, but softens immediately as Whizzer laughs; a loose clump of hair frees itself from the rest of a meticulously coiffed hairdo, curling right above his left eyebrow as features crinkle in delight at no true expense of Trina’s. He’s no photographer, but that was one sight he wanted to capture and keep forever.

 

“She just wanted to remind me that she was stopping by early with Jason is all,” Whizzer relents, turning his head away from Marvin to gaze at the black screen of the shut down television, “Not that she had anything to worry about. Jason’s the easiest kid in the _world_ to deal with.”

 

Shoveling a forkful of food into his mouth, Marvin made a noise of acknowledgement to show he had been listening, a mental note is made to let Trina know that everything went well. Not that he entirely blamed her for being wary of dropping Jason off with Whizzer alone, despite the time she and Whizzer had spent together in the wake of the break up tow years ago, Whizzer had never been the most responsible person on the planet. Even Whizzer himself knew that. But to his credit, he’s shown improvement in the last few months, acting his age when the situation called for it. Besides, Jason’s unexpected fondness for Whizzer certainly made Whizzer’s life a hell of a lot easier. Marvin had never seen his kid take to someone so quickly or listen to someone so conscientiously. When asked tentatively about it, Jason claimed he liked Whizzer so much because he was ‘really fun’ and ‘the coolest person ever besides Lev Alburt’; Marvin’s just relieved no mention of Whizzer being another father is made, already having to compete with Mendel was enough. Scaring Whizzer away a second time with _‘Hey, my kid thinks of you as another Dad, isn’t that swell’_ spiels wasn’t really on his list of things he wanted to happen anytime soon, either. Whizzer and Jason seemed **content** with their current arrangement, there was no reason to rupture it by throwing new terms or ideas around.

 

After a little while without being subjected to any wisecracks about the way he was eating or the outfit he’d left the house in today, Marvin glances over at Whizzer curiously, only to find that he’d started to doze off. Amused, he carefully sets his emptied plate on the coffee table, trying valiantly not to move too much to avoid disrupting his lover’s rest. It was peculiar, how Whizzer could go the whole day without being productive in the least bit ( Marvin reminds himself quickly that some dishes _did_ get done, if nothing else ) and still be so fatigued at the end of the day. Photography appointments come at a slow and not-always-steady pace these days, which Whizzer claimed was normal and that business would spike in the coming months, and always followed such a statement up by claiming he saw no point in finding a half-time job before the suggestion could even cross Marvin’s mind. Marvin didn’t entirely mind, even though more chores fell on him to do now, as it meant he knew Whizzer would be here when he got home; having someone to come home to at the end of a work day again beat the lonely nights he’d been subject to for two years by a long shot. No, he much prefers the routines they’ve fallen into. Even if that includes getting his ass beat in racquetball twice a week, which, of course is made up by the fact that Whizzer looks damn good in active wear.

 

Whizzer’s breathing has evened, and Marvin remains as still as he can to preserve the moment. He’s never been one for sappy sentiments or grand declarations of love, being discreet was more his style, but the more time he spent with Whizzer the more his heart swells with something he’d decided must be **_love_**. He’d felt love before, there had been love between him and Trina once, but after years of reflection Marvin had realized it was only ever of the platonic kind. But _this_ , the waves of affection that made him feel as though he were going to start floating like a hot air balloon while he watched Whizzer snooze, looking peaceful if not more wiped than usual, fingers gently pushing fallen hair from his face, was decidedly something new. Adoration warms his features, replacing lust when he smiles at Whizzer, objectification a thing of the past. Their attraction remained magnetic, as passionate as when they first began their whirlwind of romancing ( if that’s even an accurate term for what they used to be, Marvin’s yet to figure out exactly what it had been ), but he didn’t have to guard himself so closely this time around. He could openly care and voice his love, though he was still cautious of appearances in public. Unwanted attention could easily turn ugly, and from what he’s seen on the news recently, he’s compelled to keep it that way. Whizzer hasn’t brought his tendencies to be reserved with both words and actions while in public up in a sour or dejected tone yet, so Marvin hopes it can be maintained until the world proves to be more accepting. But in private, he doesn’t hesitate to be tactile and loving ( him, _loving_ ; past him is balking ), and Whizzer returns all gestures with a radiance Marvin had almost forgotten about in the two years they were apart.

 

 _This_ was what love looked like. It was gentle and unpredictable, and nothing like Marvin had anticipated.

 

As fingers brush against Whizzer’s forehead to move hair from relaxed features, heat transmits from surface to surface and takes Marvin by surprise. Brow furrows in concern, and he takes a closer look at his sleeping lover. A thin layer of sweat coats Whizzer’s skin, which Marvin can suddenly see is paler than usual, that certainly isn’t due to any fiddling with the thermostat ( which had been turned down lower than it typically would be, he notices with a quick glance at the box on the wall that told him it was roughly fifty degrees in the apartment ). With great care not to disturb Whizzer, Marvin lifts a hand to press the back of it to his lover’s forehead to test his temperature. Adoration is quickly replaced with apprehension when he removes his hand as though it had been burned— maybe he shouldn’t have been so quick to chide Whizzer about being so unproductive today if he had a temperature so high. He can only briefly consider asking Charlotte for her input before the buzzer goes off to alert them of the pizza’s delivery and Whizzer begins to stir. Considerate in nature, Marvin slowly moves from his spot on the sofa, as to not startle Whizzer and send him falling backwards without prior support. Whizzer mumbles something incoherent before reclining across the couch, fully laid out on his back now and sluggishly covers his face with an arm as Marvin moves to the door. He buzzes the delivery guy in, and trades a ten dollar bill for a pizza box and closes the door after a brief ‘have a good night’.

 

“Pizza’s here!”

 

His call draws an eager Jason from his room, headphones hooked around his neck and walkman tucked safely into his jeans, following his father and pizza box into the kitchen. Grabbing a plate, Jason’s brow furrows the same his father’s had only minutes prior. While Marvin opened the flat cardboard box, recoiling slightly at the strong scent of cheese and grease, beginning to to pull a couple slices to slide onto his son’s waiting plate, Jason’s eyes scrutinize the unmoving figure on the couch.

 

“Is Whizzer okay?”

 

Marvin pauses, freed slices of pizza hovering over the full pie for a bemused moment; this kid would never stop surprising him, would he? But Jason has always been smart and perceptive, something Marvin always finds fills him with pride when thinking about, so naturally he’d notice if something was wrong. The fact that _Jason_ has also noticed something was off with Whizzer further encouraged the seed of worry to flourish in Marvin’s gut.

 

“Of course he’s okay,” he replies, finally dumping the pizza onto Jason’s plate with a reassuring smile, though his eyes follow the way the cheese strung out rather than make any eye contact, “Just tired, that’s all.”

 

“But he’s _never_ tired,” Jason argues, the crease between his eyebrows deepening as he stared at his father, expecting answers, and if Marvin weren’t so focused on the direction of this exchange, he’d have wondered if his son held Whizzer at a **superhuman** regard if he was expected to never tire, “And he’s been coughing all night.”

 

As though on cue, a fit of coughing spills into the kitchen, and a disheveled Whizzer strides in with glossy eyes that suggested he wasn’t entirely awake yet. Scratching at his neck, Whizzer eyed the pizza with interest, blissfully unaware that he’d been the subject of any conversation. Jason gives his father a pointed look as Whizzer moved to pull a piece of pizza from the box and hesitates, blinking.

 

“Forgetting something, sleepyhead?” Marvin teases after a moment too long of Whizzer just standing there, and is thankful when sleep removes itself from Whizzer’s expression and his lover is, very maturely, sticking his tongue out at him before grabbing a plate ( what Marvin assumes is what had been the source of the drawn blank ). He returns Jason’s pointed look as Whizzer takes a bite of his pizza, as though to say _’see? he’s fine’_. Whether he’s trying to convince Jason or himself is yet to be determined.

 

Movie night proceeds as normal after that, Marvin plucking a dusty VHS tape from his shelf for them to watch ( as predicted, it’s an old documentary about a group of musicians that nearly bores Jason to tears ), and the trio assuming their normal spots on the sofa for it’s duration. Jason’s nodding off by the end, and Whizzer’s asleep with his head in Marvin’s nap before the credits start rolling, plate of pizza nearly untouched as it sits on the coffee table. After gently shaking Whizzer awake so he could get up, Marvin turns the the television off and sends Jason to bed. As Whizzer stretches on the sofa in an attempt to wake himself up again, Marvin moves to close the box of pizza and tucks it into the fridge.

 

“Don’t lie to me,” he begins, knowing smile already on his lips, “Was it really _so_ boring that it put you to sleep?”

 

Whizzer scoffs, and it’s almost enough to answer the question on its own.

 

“ _Please_ , Jason looked **pained** for half of it, Marvin. I don’t know why you insist documentaries count as an eligible genre for movie nights. They’re hardly movies.”

 

“They have a plot, just like movies,” Marvin defends futilely, though no defensiveness clings to his tone. He’s exhausted, too tired to bother initiating any real debate tonight. It’s not often any arguments escalate anymore— even Charlotte and Cordelia had commented on how the shouting from their side of the wall separating their apartments had decreased considerably over time. If anything, all they did was bicker over mundane things when they got bored; it was practically in their nature to bicker.

 

“So you _agree_ that they aren’t movies,” Whizzer doesn’t miss a beat, eyebrow piqued as a coy smile quirks his lips, arms stretched out on the back of the sofa.

 

“Not the kind you two are used to.”

 

“Oh, come _on_ , you always pick a documentary when it’s your turn to choose a movie. At this point, I’m almost ready to lift the ban on Star Wars.”

 

Marvin looks pleasantly surprised, but Whizzer catches it before he can get his hopes too high and pushes himself to stand.

 

“ _—Almost_. I said _almost_. I’m amazed that VHS still works what with the amount of times that thing got played,” he continues with weariness Marvin’s not sure is feigned or not. He opts to chuckle and wrap his arm around his lover’s waist instead of dwelling on it.

 

“I’m sure Jason would be delighted to hear it’s an option again.”

 

“ _Mhm_. You’re just lucky Harrison Ford is so damn handsome, or I wouldn’t even consider it.”

 

“ _Huh_ ,” Marvin muses thoughtfully, intrigued smile spreading across his face, “I thought you **hated** all things scruffy looking.”

 

“What can I say?” Whizzer yawns without usual melodrama in his response, hands resting on Marvin’s chest, “I guess it’s growing on me.”

 

 

It must be, Marvin ventures thoughtfully as they get ready for bed, Whizzer has been far less critical of his fashion sense since moving back in. Granted, he’ll still be the subject of some teasing every now and again, especially when he breaks out hoodies on the weekends, but it’s far less insulting now. As he settles into their bed, Whizzer already sprawled out on his respective side, book he’d intended to read some more of still laying on the bedside table untouched, Marvin reflects for a moment. A year ago, he’d have killed for this. He’d have given anything to be lying beside Whizzer again, even if it meant sacrificing a shred of his pride to pick up the phone and own up to his mistakes. He’d never found the courage to pick up the phone, but he likes to think he’s made up most, if not all, of his wrongdoings against Whizzer in the last few months, even when his patience was tested. He’s trying. He’s trying to damn hardest to be a better man; It wasn’t until Whizzer strut back into his life that he felt he could fully become that person. Because he’d patched things up with Trina, he’d learned to reconnect with his son and be a better father, and he’d even learned to reign in his anger, but he hadn’t been able to prove himself to be a decent _**lover**_. He hadn’t been able to find a new lover, despite multiple attempts that were mainly encouraged by Cordelia and Charlotte, and it took almost two years to realize that it was because he was still hung up on Whizzer. But he’d taken a risk at the baseball game, and it had paid off miraculously well.

 

Whizzer’s taken to wearing a t-shirt and boxers to bed in the last couple of weeks, claiming it was warmer that way ( Marvin insisted the thermostat could be turned up a little more, but Whizzer had refused ), but Marvin has adapted, used to the feel of soft fabric against his bare skin already. What he’s not used to is the feverish heat emitting through the fabric from his lover’s skin. The lights have been turned off, and Whizzer’s arms are around him, breathing beginning to even out for the second time that day, when Marvin dares to bring it up, voice soft.

 

“Are you feeling alright?”

 

Whizzer tenses, as though he’d been expecting the question but had hoped it wouldn’t be brought up; as though he’d been preparing for it. The measured way he responds only enforces the unease settling in Marvin’s gut.

 

“Of course I’m alright. Why?”

 

“ _Well_ , you’re sweating despite it being practically below freezing in here,” Marvin asserts, to which Whizzer scoffs.

 

“I told you, Marvin: I don’t sweat, I glow. And it’s not _that_ cold.”

 

“It’s a little cold.”

 

“Then turn the heat up if it bothers you that much, I don’t really care,” Whizzer sighs dismissively, drowsiness oozing in his tone, “Is that all you wanted from me at one in the morning?”

 

Marvin opens his mouth to press the subject further, but closes it again as eyebrows knit together in hesitation. Venturing further would only aggravate a sleepy Whizzer, and he didn’t want to deal with that right then and there. Besides, if it was anything serious, there would be more signs, wouldn’t there? All he had to base assumptions on now were a couple of coughs, poor appetite, and sweating. Whizzer could have a cold or the flu for what he knew. If he remembered in the morning, he might drop by Charlotte’s before Whizzer gets up and ready for racquetball to ask her what those ailments ( if you could call them that ) could be symptoms of.

 

“That was it,” he murmurs, and feels Whizzer relax against him, “Now go to sleep.”

 

Whizzer murmurs something Marvin can only assume is along the lines of ‘gladly’, which succeeds in putting a fond smile on his lips. He’s beginning to let sleep lull him into unconsciousness when he idly wonders how long he’s been able to feel Whizzer’s ribs against his back when he holds him like this at night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Throwback to when this fic was only supposed to be 5 chapters long lmao. But anyways, comments are always appreciated!!


	9. Dead Ball

It’s not until a glass shatters against the linoleum tiles of the kitchen floor that Whizzer is willing to admit to himself that something was seriously off; that this _really_ might not just be a generic flu. In his defense, it had been first thing in the morning and Marvin wrapping his arms around his waist had startled him, so his dropping the glass could be blamed entirely on drowsiness that comes with waking up at 6 in the morning for an early game of racquetball, and the element of surprise. Instead of evoking profuse apologies for the shards of glass scattered around the floor ( which miraculously neither were cut by, both having been barefooted at the time ), it set Whizzer in a sour mood for the rest of the day. He’d been in poor temper since movie night, and when gingerly asked for a reason for his moodiness Whizzer blamed it on a headache, which Marvin appeared to believe and always allowed it to drop after that. He asks again that morning, sweeping the remnants of what appeared to be his own mistake ( he hadn’t expected Whizzer to jump when lacing his arms around his lover’s middle from behind, but perhaps a _little_ more of a heads up could have prevented the scare ), and he would have been more amused by the whole situation if Whizzer would crack a smile instead of watching the dustpan and brush intently.

 

“Everything alright, Whiz?”

 

Whizzer rubs at his chest through his t-shirt and looks away, eyes fixating on the cabinet housing their shared collection of coffee mugs, hair in disarray as it hangs in clumps above eyes ringed with dark circles.

 

“You know better than to talk to me before I’ve had my morning coffee, Marv.”

 

And it’s left at that, the sound of the coffee maker filling silence between them as they continued with morning routines. Even while he sat and held the cooling mug of coffee in his hands, Whizzer unintentionally maintained a distanced gaze, taking only a few sips instead of downing it as he regularly did, and ultimately dumping the rest down the kitchen sink when Marvin went into the bathroom to get ready. If there _**was**_ something wrong, Marvin didn’t need to know. Like he’d told Charlotte and Cordelia, Marvin always enjoyed feeling smart and putting these things together himself would help him out there. It’d also spare Whizzer’s pride a decent cut, never having been one to admit he had any physical ailments or imperfections. In fact, he’d worked hard to maintain health and a good image, admitting to anyone that he was less than the picture of good health would shatter illusions he’s struggled to maintain as he aged. Skipping his usual breakfast of toast ( with peanut butter spread across it and sliced bananas to top it off ), he goes to their room and plucks his white racquetball-specific outfit from its hanger. It no longer fit in all the right places, now baggy and rather unflattering, but Marvin hadn’t mentioned anything, so he hoped the shift in weight had been gradual enough to avoid suspicions. He pulls his leather jacket from its hanger and lays it out on the bed with acute consideration; it was supposed to be warm today, as summer rounded its way into full swing, but one could _never—_

 

The bathroom door clicks to alert Whizzer to its vacancy, disrupting his train of thought. Leaving his jacket behind, he grabs his white shirt and shorts and slips into the bathroom to change and the moment the door shuts behind him he allows all facades to drop. Rickety sigh trickles past parted lips and his body suddenly feels like it’s gained fifty pounds despite the bony reflection staring back at him from the mirror above the sink.

 

He remains locked in the bathroom for almost an hour– thirty minutes longer than usual ( it takes him a _while_ to properly wash up and do his daily primping ), and Whizzer doesn’t usually lock the door behind him. Privacy was never one of his biggest concerns, after all. But this morning he’d woken up nauseous and was horribly unsteady on his feet, which wasn’t going to make this racquetball session easy– more specifically, it wasn’t going to make it easy to _pretend_ like playing racquetball was easy. Day after day, it became increasingly difficult to act like nothing was off, horribly and obviously off. He’s not **stupid** ; he’s seen the news, heard the rumors, caught the nervous glances Charlotte throws his way when they passed each other on their ways to and from respective apartments. But what only he seems to taking into account is that he doesn’t _get_ sick, he’s gotten sick maybe twice in his life, so this case of the flu or _whatever_ it was, was bound to pass sooner or later. He just had to let it run its course. Or whatever it was this thing needed to do. But over and over again, he’s watching the glass shatter against the floor. He can still feel his heart racing from when he startled, his fingers are still trembling no matter how he tried to still them. Something was really, **_really_** wrong.

 

“Everything okay in there?”

 

A soft knock accompanies the question, and Whizzer finds himself abruptly pulled from his thoughts by Marvin’s voice and the sound of the doorknob meeting lock’s resistance. Gripping the sink to the point his knuckles turn white as he steadies his breathing, Whizzer builds himself up again. Builds up smiles and charm and everything that used to come to him with such ease, before exhaustion had crept on him with growing momentum. He holds his tongue to refrain from giving Marvin a snippy response, closing his eyes to focus on maintaining composure. Only so much energy can be directed to keeping his attitude in check when the rest is barely keeping him on his feet. Straightening himself, Whizzer smoothes his hair and makes sure the discolored splotches on his chest that spidered up to his neck are covered by both fabric and some concealer he’d swiped from Cordelia the other night when he saw it laying around in the bathroom, Whizzer decided he was all set to leave the apartment presentably. Like Marvin used to believe– appearances were everything.

 

“Keep your pants on I just need to grab my bag,” he finally replies, swinging the bathroom door open with forced nonchalance, as though he took that long to get ready every day, “Make sure you’ve got the sweatbands because I don’t want to get there to find you forgot them _again_.”

 

Marvin rolls his eyes but doesn’t argue. Whizzer doesn’t miss how he tries to discreetly grab the sweatbands, that had been sitting on their dresser, and stuff them into his bag on the way out the door.

 

—-

 

At least racquetball was a good cover for all the sweating. It clung to his skin and dampened his shirt the way it had Marvin’s when they’d first picked the sport up. It only took about ten minutes for Whizzer to grow frustrated and for his lungs to start crying for a pause. All he’s focused on is the ball and the way his feet can’t seem to move the way he wants them to, balance so horrendously off kilter for a reason he can’t explain. He _needs_ to win, he’s never needed to win this badly before, but he has to prove that’s he’s fine. That everything is alright.

 

When it appears that the ball hits inside the line when Marvin struck it, he tries to establish some footing in the game.

 

“ _Hey—_ it bounced in.”

 

Marvin turns to face him, features crinkling with indignation, gesturing to the line on the floor with his racquet, as though the static line could prove his case on its own. He’s willing to fight, a nice change from his passive admittances of inadequacy when they usually play. Whizzer might have admired it even, if he weren’t so set on trying to gain the upper hand; he doesn’t usually have to try.

 

“No it didn’t!”

 

“Yeah, it hit the line!” Whizzer argues with his feet firmly planted, despite his accusation being dismissed with a wave, “You _know_ it did.”

 

“Whatever, just go ahead and start,” Marvin ignores the scowl disrupting his lover’s features to get himself into position for another round, the same way he’s handled Whizzer’s moodiness the last couple of days. If it hadn’t been obvious before this point, Whizzer Brown wasn’t someone who tolerated being ignored or dismissed. No, he **_demanded_** attention, and feeling like shit or not, he wasn’t going to let this dismissal slide without a little bite.

 

“Are you kidding? Remind me, who’s telling who how to play again?”

 

Marvin drops his stance and swivels to face miffed lover with clear irritation. Whizzer doesn’t miss the way confusion is overpowered by annoyance when Marvin looks him up and down, looking for a source for the sour mood he’s worn so openly since they arrived. Determined not to let the way he was panting show, Whizzer sets his shoulders defensively only to be met with a mirrored posture as Marvin stood his ground. He’ll give Marvin credit, the man still won’t bend when challenged, despite having been softened by the last couple of years.

 

“ _C’mon_ , Whizzer, forgive me for winning **one** game,” Marvin counters, on the defensive, “I’ll let you win the next one if it’ll get you off my ass.”

 

Whizzer scoffs, unable to believe that Marvin would willingly throw any sort of game just to appease him until he saw it happen with his own two eyes. Even if he was okay with Whizzer consistently beating him every time they came here to play, and could maintain civility when he lost now, Marvin was no less competitive than he was before. Frankly, Whizzer wouldn’t have him any other way— he could use the competition every now and again, even if that meant they bickered more than most would deem ordinary. But he doesn’t have the energy to argue this further today, and doesn’t want to be handed a win just because he put up a stink. There’s no reward in that.

 

“Just serve, Marvin,” he sighs, rolling his shoulders before dropping into position, trying to clear the fogginess clouding his senses. Something isn’t right. Something really, _really_ isn’t right.

 

Marvin serves. Whizzer stumbles and misses.

 

“Nice serve, Marvin.”

 

See? He can be civil.

 

Marvin serves again. There’s a bit of back and forth and Whizzer feels like someone has taken a vacuum to his lungs, every move made winding him no matter how valiantly he tries to keep his breathing even. He’s trying, he’s trying, he’s—

 

Missing. Stumbling. Gasping for breath.

 

Marvin’s gloating, grinning, preening like a peacock, and all he can manage are half-assed smiles of vexed amusement. More back and forth, heavier panting. More missing, frustration building. A serve and a miss. Another serve and another miss. Starved lungs and not enough air. The moment he stumbles close enough to the ball for it to be his excuse to call the game, Whizzer seizes his chance for escape. He’ll let Marvin has this game. He’ll let Marvin win like he so enjoys, just get him out of this damn court where the air seems to be thinning by the second.

 

“—The ball hit my heel. Game’s yours, Marv.”

 

Marvin balks and stares at his lover in undiluted disbelief as though he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. As though Whizzer calling it then and there was utterly unbelievable, unthinkable! Whizzer’s already pulling his wristbands off whilehis chest heaves, mouth and throat feeling like someone took a hairdryer to them, behaving in a way that made it seem he had another engagement to run to.

 

“You’re kidding me,” Marvin snaps, eyebrows knotted in mounting irritation, “You’re _quitting_?”

 

The word is spit out like a curse word, as though it were as bad as any slurs thrown at them from those who hadn’t gotten around to being accepting. Whizzer tugs his goggles down to shoot Marvin a dry glare, attempting to sharpen his eyes so he could see the other man’s face clearly through the blurriness masking his vision. He really didn’t have the energy for this argument, he just wanted to go home and take a nap in their bed and sleep off this feeling of exhaustion.

 

“I’m done for the day. I’m ready to go.”

 

Marvin pulls his own pair of goggles off and begins tugging the strap of his racquet from his wrist, annoyance practically radiating off his skin from where he stood several feet away. Whizzer can feel it from where he stands, struck by wave after wave of displeasure. It’s remarkable, he’s given a win and he’s not happy about it. This was a day of multiple firsts, it seemed.

 

“You could at least **_try_** to be a good sport about it,” Marvin grouches, allowing his racquet to hang loosely from his fingertips at his side as he watches Whizzer’s back. Whizzer replies with a scoff, and would have shaken his head in disbelief ( _him_ , being scolded by Marvin of all people for being a poor sport ) had his brain not felt like it was submerged in water.

 

“I _said_ I’m ready to—“

 

For a moment he thinks he hears Marvin call his name, but it sounds too far away and it’s like someone stuck his head underwater; his knees give way the moment black spots appear to cloud his vision. Hands hit the floor the same time his racquet clatters to the ground at his side.

 

—

 

Marvin doesn’t see a racquet hit the floor, he watches the glass from this morning shatter against tile in slow motion. He watches the full picture splinter in a shower of sharp edges, symptoms exploding like red flags as he takes a second to register just what’s happening in front of him. All the bitching and sleeping late and vigorous coughing were signs he should have taken more seriously, he shouldn’t have let Whizzer bat his concerns aside. Because something had been wrong, and something should have been done.

 

Annoyance is wiped clean away as a cold fear seizes him and has him running to Whizzer’s side. Hoarse apologies slip past Whizzer’s lips, ragged as his breathing, and while Marvin hushes him, hands gently cradling his face and wondering how that shirt that used to be so form fitting is now hanging loosely from his lover’s frame, a seed of dread plants itself in his gut. He’s never seen Whizzer like this before, so exhausted and vulnerable as he struggles to steady his breathing, and it’s almost physically painful to watch. Grabbing discarded racquets and helping Whizzer to his feet, hand securing the taller man in an upright position, an attempt to mask his overwhelming worry is made. They make it as far as the lobby when Whizzer insists he needs to sit, stumbling to a black metal bench and easing himself down as Marvin allows him to move away from his guiding hand, both aware that the trashcan residing next to it could prove useful any moment now. While Whizzer reclines along the bench, closing his eyes and his dampened brow furrows in what Marvin can only assume is discomfort, Marvin moves to the payphone across the open room.

 

He doesn’t realize he’s holding his breath until Charlotte picks up on the other side after a few moments of monotonous ringing and his body is melting into a sigh of relief.

 

“Hello? Dr. Charlotte DuBois speaking.”

 

“Charlotte? It’s Marvin,” speaking quickly, he continues before she has a chance to dive into any pleasantries, eyes never leaving Whizzer, fixated by the uneven rising and falling of his chest, “I know it’s your day off and you made plans with Cordelia and everything, but I needed to ask you about something. I swear I wouldn’t be calling if it wasn’t important, you _know_ I wouldn’t—”

 

“Marvin, slow down,” Charlotte soothes, concern evident in the way her tone shifts to something more professional, “Our reservation isn’t until eight o’clock tonight, I have time. But Cordelia mentioned you and Whizzer reserved court time for this morning, I thought—“

 

“Yeah, we did. We're still here. But something’s wrong, and he collapsed _right there_ in the middle of the court, and I was just going to take him home so he could rest, but I wanted to check with _you_ first to see if you had any better ideas. Because he looks like **_shit_** , Charlotte. I’ve never seen him like this, and I don’t know what’s wrong.”

 

And he **hated** not knowing.

 

Charlotte’s silent for a long, calculating moment, and the seed of dread buried in his gut starts to grow roots. Mind racing, he tries to think of any other information he could supply, any other indications he could see that meant something could be wrong, Anything that could be useful to helping her figure out what was wrong so she could advise how to go about helping Whizzer bounce back from this, he was willing to share all he knew. _Just please_ , he begs silently to a God he hasn’t prayed to in three years, _let there be something he can do_.

 

“He _collapsed_?”

 

“Yes.”

 

There’s a soft curse on the other end of the line and Marvin can feel his throat tighten; that was the kind of response he was hoping he didn’t have to hear. That kind of response confirmed that something was undeniably wrong. It let him know that Charlotte knew something he didn’t.

 

“Get him to the hospital. I’ll meet you there.”

 

Nodding despite the fact he knows his friend can’t see, he hangs up the receiver with a trembling hand. Charlotte’s just being safe, he assures himself, she just wants to make sure there isn’t anything seriously wrong. Everything would be _fine_. No, better than fine. Everything would be **_great_**. Because Whizzer would be okay, and once this whole thing blew over, they could go back to normalcy and keep being okay.

 

Everything would be alright.

 

—-

 

True to her word, Charlotte was there when they arrived, wearing her lab coat and tight frown. Whizzer looks mildly uncomfortable the moment they step into the building and the sterile smell wafts through their senses, but doesn’t protest or try to weasel his way into just going home and avoiding the hospital altogether. Not that Marvin would have allowed him to, of course, not after feeling his heart stop in the middle of that court when Whizzer dropped. No, he did exactly what Charlotte told him to, holding Whizzer close to him as they took the train to the hospital, hand pushing sticky hair from his forehead and ignoring the scandalized look the woman a few seats away was giving them.

 

Upon arrival, Charlotte wasted no time in ushering them both through a series of tests, checking Whizzer’s blood pressure, temperature, and the works while Marvin stood by and watched with his lips pressed tightly together. Every change in facial features or immediate results that she jotted down were scrutinized, searching for something that could clue him in to what was wrong and how serious it really was. The fear she was trying to mask shone with vibrance in her eyes despite calm exterior, and when she quietly excuses herself from the room to consult with another doctor, Marvin doesn’t miss the way her gaze lingers on Whizzer for a second too long to be reassuring. Left in a room of tension that could be diced by a knife, the pair sits in silence to mull over the same unspoken anxieties. Faced by a lack of adequate words, Marvin places a comforting hand on Whizzer’s shoulder and gives it a squeeze, which elicits a weak smile as Whizzer shifts to cover Marvin’s hand with his own while his eyes remain trained on the door.

 

All Marvin can think about is all the signs he missed. The list of signs he hadn’t known were symptoms ( or the covering of symptoms ) gains length the longer he dwells on it, and if something truly _is_ wrong he’s not sure he’ll be able to forgive himself for being to lenient with voicing his concerns. Even Jason had noticed something wasn’t right, but Marvin had been concerned about pride being wounded and potential arguments and hadn’t listened carefully enough. Now they were stuck in this stuffy room with walls white enough it was an eyestrain and Whizzer’s sitting on the exam table in a hospital gown and Marvin can’t keep himself from staring at the angry red marks mottling his skin and wondering how long they’ve been there. How many times has he laid beside Whizzer and neglected to find such a thing on a body he thought he knew as well as his own? More importantly, why hadn’t Whizzer _said_ anything? Was his pride so important that he couldn’t admit to feeling unwell? Or was it just a matter of admitting to _Marvin_ that something was wrong? Before he can dig himself into a deeper hole of restless thoughts, Charlotte’s entering the room again with a grim expression that makes Marvin’s heart lurch.

 

“We’re going to need to keep you here overnight, Whizzer,” she admits slowly, and while Whizzer’s features crinkle with dismay, he nods his head reluctantly. Doctor’s orders weren’t to be fought, especially not when they were coming from Dr. DuBois. She goes on to explain they need to run a few more tests and get as clear a diagnosis as they could, and that wasn’t going to be completed before the morning, so to be safe they needed him to stay. Something goes unspoken between the three of them, that this was teetering towards a number of worst case scenarios they’d all been formulating, but no one dared to voice their fears out loud.

 

They get Whizzer to his room ( it was _temporary_ , Whizzer and Marvin both remind themselves hopefully, this is just for the night ), and Marvin is led away by Charlotte as other doctors tend to ensuring Whizzer is taken care of setting him up for his stay and for more tests. Hands shoved deep into the pockets of his hoodie ( he’d defended keeping one in his bag to a disapproving Whizzer a number of weeks ago ), Marvin watches the closed door and tries to ignore the melancholy Charlotte wore as she studied him for a moment. he’s tempted to remind her that he’s not a patient.

 

“Please tell me this is just precautionary, Doc, “ he says softly, unwilling to look her in the eye just yet, “That he should be free to go tomorrow.”

 

“I think you should go home and bring him anything you think he’ll need for the night,” Charlotte replies in a tone that sounds like walking on eggshells feels, “And anything you think he might need if he has to stay _longer_ than that.”

 

Marvin recoils, denial taking a dagger to his heart so he could bleed refusal. _Longer_. Whizzer might have to stay _longer_. Finally facing his friend, he can see the trepidation her words have been trained to emit, confirming his fears. This wasn’t just precautionary, and Whizzer wasn’t coming home tomorrow.

 

“I need to call Trina. I have to let her know I can’t take Jason this weekend so she doesn’t send him off to an empty apartment tonight.”

 

He’s grateful to Charlotte for not calling out the way his voice cracks around the last word as he turns to find a phone and the money for the train back to his apartment. If there’s one person he trusts to take care of Whizzer, or at the very least to keep a close eye on him, it’s Charlotte. But he’s never seen her look so afraid. There was something else in her expression, and he doesn’t place it until he’s opening his apartment door; she wasn’t just afraid, she was _frustrated_. She didn’t have the answers she needed and that wasn’t normal. Something about this wasn’t normal, and that made it all the more terrifying. As he moves further into his apartment ( his _and Whizzer’s_ apartment, he reminds himself ), Marvin scans the place for anything his lover might need. The place isn’t exactly clean, and he even spies a few loose minuscule shards of glass that his dustpan and brush had missed this morning tucked into a corner of the kitchen when passing through it to grab Whizzer’s glasses ( which were in their case and collecting dust on the counter, but he figures it wouldn’t hurt to take them ), and realizes they hadn’t had a chance to clean the place up for when Jason got there. So it was a good thing Trina hadn’t made any plans that weekend and had happily agreed to keep Jason for the weekend; to her credit, she did sound concerned over the phone, and Marvin wonders how genuine it was. Trina and Whizzer had every right to dislike each other, but even at the baseball game, Marvin had noticed the two were on what could be considered friendly terms. Vaguely he wonders if they saw each other between that time at all outside of Trina and Mendel's wedding ( which he remains bitter about being uninvited to, though it was probably for the best ) when he acted as their hired photographer. Perhaps it wasn't a **bad** thing they had bonded. Not a bad thing at all.

 

Once he’s collected a bag of Whizzer’s things to take back with him, a small assortment that included a brush, toiletries ( he knew better than to believe Whizzer would willingly use what the hospital would supply him with ), Whizzer’s scarcely used glasses, a deck of cards, and a book Whizzer’s been saying he keeps meaning to read but hasn’t, Marvin heads into their bedroom to ensure he has what will be needed most immediately. The sight of the leather jacket strewn out of the bed causes him to pause— it wasn’t like Whizzer to leave things lying around. And it _definitely_ wasn’t like Whizzer to leave his clothes anywhere but neatly hanging in the closet where they belonged. Setting the bag of his lover’s belongings aside for a moment, Marvin carefully scoops the jacket up and hangs it up, fingers lingering on the sleeve for a moment.

 

Denial creeps up on him again, and he takes a step back as the lump forming in his throat is swallowed down. Everything would be fine, there was no reason to be so emotional or fearful. This was temporary. In another week, Whizzer would be back in the apartment and they’d be in the middle of movie night with Jason, all crammed comfortably on the couch, as though nothing had gone wrong.

 

Heading out the door with bag in hand, Marvin reassures himself again; _Everything would be alright._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry these are taking so long, I've just felt very unsatisfied with my writing lately so it's been hard to find the motivation to write. Hopefully following chapters will be better than this one! 
> 
> As usual, comments are what keep me going! I'll take any feedback I can get!


	10. Penultimate Picture

A few days pass, and Marvin finds himself beside a hospital bed with his lover’s hand clasped gently within his own. It was a hopeful attempt to get Whizzer to stop picking impatiently at the IV in his arm. Doctors still beat around bushes, unable to give them any straightforward answers, even Charlotte found it difficult to pass any concrete information along; in short, everyone had a hunch what was wrong but didn’t dare say it aloud if there was a _chance_ they could be wrong. Marvin had reluctantly been kicked out the previous night by both Charlotte and Whizzer, who insisted he had to sleep in his own bed and go to work instead of hanging around the hospital when no developments seemed to be in sight, and Whizzer’s condition had been stable ( but far from any better, as he’d lost roughly a third of his body weight so suddenly and suffered from a number of other ailments ) for roughly twenty-four hours, so it seemed unreasonable to stay when work had to be done. With the promise that he would be contacted immediately should anything change, an exhausted Marvin had pressed a kiss to Whizzer’s feverish forehead and ducked out for the night. Work, of course, had been hellish, his mind preoccupied by a merciless hurricane of _‘what ifs’_ as he attempted to feign normalcy and efficiently do his job. But instead of being focused on marketing and advertisement ploys, he couldn’t shake the raw nerves eating away at the lining of his stomach, leaves of the rooted dread tickling his insides. Sleep hadn’t come to him easily as he lay there in a bed too big and too cold for him to feel comfortable in on his own, feeling more like a puzzle missing its last piece than a man.

 

So when he’d returned to Whizzer’s hospital room, relieved to be back at his lover’s side after going through the motions at work in the quickest way possible and requesting to use some of the vacation time he’s saved up, he informs Whizzer that he’s not going anywhere anytime soon. He wasn’t met with much resistance. If he’s not mistaken, the way Whizzer’s expression softens with the news confirms that he’s not the only one who felt uneasy about the separation. With so much up in the air, there was no way of telling what could take a turn or when, and while Marvin worked tirelessly to hide his petrification, he didn’t want to take any chances as far as being there when ( _if_ ) anything should change. With that decided, he spent the rest of the evening fussing and rearranging things in the room, replacing the hospital standard ash tray with some flowers, and tending to Whizzer’s every need.

 

Today had been no different than the last few, save for a brief visit from Cordelia, who maintained a mask of optimistic enthusiasm as she tried to wheedle Whizzer and Marvin into test-tasting some of her latest kosher concoctions. While both had initially declined in the most polite way they knew how, they found themselves with food in their hands regardless. Marvin smiles and nibbles at it with a smile he hoped would keep Cordelia’s feelings unharmed, and to spare Whizzer’s already easily upset stomach ( Marvin’s almost certain Whizzer hasn’t been able to hold anything down in all the time they’ve been here in the hospital ) subtly takes the sample from him and nibbles away at that too.

 

“It’s good, Delia.”

 

“ _Wonderful!_ ” she trilled, clapping her hands excitedly as curls bob around her face as she bounces on her toes, visibly relieved to see Marvin’s ( forced ) smile, “See, I wasn’t sure if they were alright or not, because Charlotte didn’t seem to love them much. But she’s a picky eater, anyways, so maybe it was just a texture kind of thing--”

 

She’s rambling, and it isn’t until Whizzer has launched into another fit of couching that she trails off, fear flickering in her eyes as she looks from Whizzer to Marvin. When Marvin grabs hold of his lover’s hand, Cordelia keeps her gaze trained on the tupperware containers she’d waltzed in here with. Like she suddenly rethought her visit, she snapped the lids back on the containers and waited for Whizzer’s breathing to return to normal to give him an apologetic smile and excuse herself. Feeling foolish, she stops by Charlotte’s office to steady her own breathing.

 

When her lover steps in, understanding concern written across her features, Cordelia forces her lips to curl up in a helpless smile. Beside her sits her stack of tupperware, entirely forgotten as it stays static on the desk.

 

“I don’t know _how_ you do this,” she admits, voice cracking in a way that brings Charlotte closer to her with an empathetic frown, “I don’t know how you can stomach it all. I can’t look at him and not just see everything that’s _wrong_.”

 

Comforting arms wrap around her middle and she allows herself to relax into them, valiantly fighting tears that threatened to spill down cheeks flushed with anguish.

 

“It’s like he’s not even _there_.”

 

“I know,” Charlotte murmurs, tone mirroring the dread that shone in her eyes, in a measured voice Cordelia knew was typically applied to anxious families sitting around a waiting room, “But that’s what this thing does. It just doesn’t stop taking until there’s nothing left to eat away at.“

 

Cordelia inhales and exhales a shuddering sigh, finding her composure. This didn’t feel real. This didn’t seem like it could be possible. Whizzer had always been the picture of good health, fit and larger than life. The man struggling to find his breath in that hospital bed couldn’t be him. But what did that make _her_  if she was thinking in such a way? Whizzer was one of her best friends, and it had taken only a handful of meetings to solidify that fact. How Charlotte could stand to go in there so many times a day and hold her chin high and keep a brave face up was beyond Cordelia, and something she’d never fail to respect.

 

“There’s no way to stop it, is there?”

 

Soft words hang in the air for a long while, and the silence makes her eyes sting with hot tears that she refused to turn into full blown waterworks. There was nothing to cry for yet, nothing was set in stone yet. She just needed to hear Charlotte confirm that everything would be alright.

 

“No,” Charlotte concedes, and it’s so quiet Cordelia prays she just misheard or missed a response altogether, “ _No_ , honey, there’s nothing we can do now. I don’t know if there ever was. We just don’t have the medicine to combat what he has. All we can do is be there for him.”

 

A sob finally bubbles past rosy lips and Cordelia’s allowed herself this moment of premature grief before having to go face the two men in that room again. Charlotte holds her until her weeping subsides, rubbing soothing circles into her back, bottom lip trembling in a way that betrayed any facade of full composure. Once Cordelia had quieted some, she pressed a soft kiss to her forehead and sighed ruefully, hands cradling her lover’s face.

 

“I’ve got to get back to work. Stay here as long as you’d like. Depending on how things go tonight, I might come home to sleep for a bit before my morning shift starts.”

 

Cordelia nods, heartsick. Charlotte had been running herself ragged since these mysterious cases had been popping up, and even more now that Whizzer was a resident. It felt as though it had been ages since she’d been able to spend a nice evening together, and she can’t remember the last time she’s seen Charlotte relaxed— they were supposed to take a day to breathe and just enjoy each other’s company but the incident at the racquetball court had disrupted their plans. Not that she held that against Whizzer nor Marvin, of course, but she was worried for Charlotte’s well being. Working herself into the ground wouldn’t help Whizzer or any of these men any faster.

 

“I love you,” she calls after her lab coat clad lover, who turns to give her a fond smile.

 

“I love you, too.”

 

By the time Charlotte’s out of view, Cordelia has buried her face in her hands and is trying to find it in her to visit Whizzer again.

 

—

 

Hours trickle by in that hospital room, and Marvin’s grateful for the privacy the room Whizzer’s been assigned provides— he’s heard about the way other hospitals in places like Los Angeles were packing seven men to one long room at a time and can’t stomach the thought of Whizzer ever being stuck there. It may be small and lack windows, but it’s quiet and private and with Charlotte never too far, Marvin’s allowed to stay the night. Not that the doctors or nurses are too anal about the rules, aside from keeping Whizzer practically isolated to his room until they figured out what was wrong and just how it spread. He sits by as different doctors, most of which he learned were volunteers in this ward, guide Whizzer through tests to make note of how slow his reflexes were or if his sight and hearing had begun to deteriorate. The only time he looks away is when gauze is applied to the deep scarlet bumps littering Whizzer’s torso and neck, stomach unable to handle it. But he’ll glance over at Whizzer’s face every now and again to gauge his expression to see if he was in any pain.

 

Despite his protestations in the first few days of being here, insisting he didn’t want a fuss made or to be seen in such a state, Marvin knew it meant a lot to Whizzer that they had such frequent visitors. Charlotte wasalways swinging in and out of the room, keeping Marvin updated with any new information he might need or want to know, and Cordelia was there at least once a day to bring a little light into the room with her smile. Trina and Mendel had brought Jason over for a brief visit, but unfortunately Whizzer had drifted off mid-chess game and Trina hurriedly ushered Jason out of the room with Charlotte close behind offering to show him around the rest of the hospital in hopes it would distract him. It was apparent to Marvin that his son could straight through all their bullshit and knew something was seriously wrong, even if they were all working hard to ignore it and pretend everything was fine. He’d watched as Jason’s face had crumbled at the sight of Whizzer laid out in the bed, sickness visibly clinging to him. Jason had never been hesitant around Whizzer before, but there was something akin to fear in the boy’s eyes as he cautiously approached the bedside with his chess set in hand, as though he were scared he’d do serious damage by just _looking_ at Whizzer the wrong way. It damn near broke Marvin’s heart right then and there. Whether his heart bled for Jason, Whizzer, or both, even he isn’t sure. And while he knows Mendel and Trina have taken the time to gently talk the situation over with Jason, Marvin isn't sure there's anything that can be said to console him. Not at this age, not with this kind of loss. Jason hadn't visited since, busy with school work and baseball, which Trina ensured he was preoccupied by.

 

So after Cordelia had quickly dismissed herself, it was just the two of them for a long time. Whizzer rests, and there are a few instances where Marvin tentatively leaves to grab something or use the bathroom, but always hurries back.

 

“You _can_ leave me alone for more than two minutes,” Whizzer likes to remind him, poignant smile just barely reaching his lips.

 

But every single time, Marvin just shook his head stubbornly. Fear kept him rooted there, but like _hell_ he was going to admit to being scared. Because being openly scared would do nothing but make him a nuisance, and he doesn’t want Whizzer to feel as though he needed to be consoled. He was making an array of false assurances and promises day in and day out, but Marvin isn’t sure he can handle Whizzer repeating any back to him.

 

“I don’t have anywhere else to be.”

 

Whizzer will scoff and call bullshit, as it had been close to a week now that Marvin hadn’t gone to work, but in the end Marvin stays and Whizzer doesn’t try sending him away.

 

They follow the same exchange as they do every day once the clock on the wall has reached ten o’clock, and Whizzer has caught Marvin yawning.

 

“You _could_ go to work tomorrow,” Whizzer murmurs suggestively, having moved over on his bed to make room for Marvin to lie beside him, “Which would require you going home and actually sleeping in a real  ** _bed_** for a change.”

 

“You’re trying to kick me out?” Marvin asks in mock offense, but he’s lacking in energy and makes no move to go anywhere.

 

“I am _absolutely_ kicking you out. Go have a drink and get some rest, Marv,” Whizzer instructs lazily, fiddling with the strings of Marvin’s hoodie, “There’s nothing to be scared of, I’ll be _right_ here when you—“

 

“I’m not scared,” Marvin interrupts, features hardening with denial as he stares up at the ceiling, “And I’m not going anywhere.”

 

Before Whizzer has the chance to continue with his attempt at persuading Marvin to go and sleep in their bed instead of this hospital bed or the visitor’s chair, Charlotte knocks on the door, disrupting the conversation. The melancholy written across her face is enough to make Marvin sit up straight, on alert, and Whizzer wears a well-practiced mask of nonchalance when he notices the doctor hovering behind her.

 

“Marvin, can I see you for a moment?” she asks, tone unwavering and professional and giving absolutely nothing way. Giving his lover’s shoulder a gentle squeeze, Marvin gets to his feet and slips outside the room to speak with Charlotte privately, keeping his fingers crossed that he’d be given some good news this time, not just another _‘we’re doing what we can’_ or _‘it could be this, but it’s possible it could also be that’_. So much for not going anywhere. But at least he doesn’t have to go too far. As he steps into the hall, the doctor that had arrived with Charlotte moves into the hospital room and closes the door behind him, a red flag that smacks Marvin right in the face. They didn’t usually close the door for tests, and they didn’t usually keep him away from Whizzer for tests either, so this clearly wasn’t just another round of tests. This was something _else_ ; something that made him feel nauseous. The way Charlotte seems to be grappling with maintaining a professional collectiveness doesn’t soothe his mind and racing heart, either.

 

“What’s going on, Charlotte?”

 

Charlotte swallows hard and blinks a few times, bracing herself before allowing words to slip past her lips.

 

“I’m going to tell you the same thing Dr. Martin is telling Whizzer right now. But I need you to listen and I need you to understand that we have done absolutely everything our resources and budget allow.”

 

Marvin feels his blood freeze over like ice— that wasn’t a good start. That was a very, very **_bad_** start.

 

“Something bad is happening here, and all we can narrow it down to is a cancer they’re calling _Kaposi Sarcoma_. In Whizzer’s case, it has spread too far for us to do anything to stop it now,” she explains, every word deliberately and carefully chosen, allowing the gravity to hit Marvin at its own speed, “His immune system is virtually nonexistent, it probably hasn’t been functioning properly for a while now. But what he has is _definitely_ the same thing we’ve seen in the cases I’ve spoken to you about before. We don’t have…a name for it yet, nothing aside from the KS that the majority have reportedly had as well. But they _have_ determined that whatever it is, it’s a **killer** we’re not even close to finding a cure for. It’s fatal, and it’s _spreading_. Somehow, it’s spreading from man to man, and the only theory we have is that it’s transmitted _**sexually**_.”

 

There’s a brief pause as she gives him a moment to process all she’s thrown at him, and when she reaches out to touch his arm she’s grateful he doesn’t pull away. A small part of her is grateful that he doesn’t break down, as well. Because while she’s had to be the bearer of bad news a myriad amount of times before, she isn’t sure she could watch her friend fall apart and not crack in half herself. She was professional, but she wasn’t made of stone. That was her friend lying in that bed, not some patient she’d only known for a handful of days. Having to deliver this news was easily one of the hardest things she had ever done, and the blank expression on Marvin’s face wasn’t making it any easier.

 

“I’m sorry, but Whizzer has a few days left, at best.“

 

She’s expecting an explosion, she’s expecting rage or sobs or pleas to do _more_ ; but Marvin just remains still as a statue, arms folded tightly across his chest as the news sinks in. It’s the first time she’s had a chance to get a good look at him in days, and he looks like hell. The bags under his eyes rival Whizzer’s and his disheveled hair and pale skin do him no favors, either. The moment the theory that this virus could be a sexually transmitted disease had cropped up, she’d been hyperaware of any telling signs that Marvin could potentially be affected as well. He had so much to deal with since the moment he brought Whizzer through these doors, though, that she had thought it unfair to throw that at him until now, when she had little choice but to do so. And perhaps it _was_ too much at once. Dr. Martin slips out of Whizzer’s room silently, and without looking at Charlotte or Marvin, retreats down the corridor like he hadn’t just had to tell a man his days were limited. Nodding to show Charlotte he had heard what she’d said, Marvin moves away and leaving her standing alone in the hall, returns to Whizzer’s bedside.

 

Part of Charlotte wishes he had raged, wishes he had thrown a fit, because calming him would give her something to do. It could have given her something productive and helpful to do that could keep her from wanting to fall apart at her desk when she returned to her office, accompanied only by the containers of tupperware still sitting around. What was the point of having all this information, as vague and useless as it was, if it didn’t do anything to soothe the ache of grief? What was the point of explaining what was wrong with someone if the only thing that mattered was the number of days they had left to spend with the people they loved and who loved them back? In a rare, private moment of permitted emotion, the containers are swept to the floor with a furious sweep of her arm, plastic bouncing lamely against tiled floor.

 

“ _Damn_ this place.”

 

—

 

The news is not addressed when Marvin reenters the room, but Whizzer does not say another word about Marvin going home that night. Instead, he just beckons him over with a weak gesture that Marvin obeys, and once they are both situated as comfortably as that bed ( that was very much _not_ made for two people ) would allow, took him into his arms and fell asleep that way. Marvin dozed off for minutes at a time, but his mind wouldn’t take the cue to subside in its storming for him to be able to sleep, so he spent most of the late hours reeling. All he could do was try to ignore how he could feel Whizzer’s bones against his back as he laid there, and replay all the information Charlotte had relayed to him over and over again like an old video tape.

 

 _Days_. They only had _days_. Who decided that was fair? Who decided that Whizzer was deserving of such a horrible sentence? Similarly, was he going to share a similar sentence for his own actions as well? There’s too many questions, too much injustice, and too much love and grief for Marvin to properly digest it all. Because he _did_ love the man he was in this bed with, and after so long, he knew that that was okay. That he was loved in return, which was all he wanted. But what he really wanted, more than anything, was for the man he loved to **_live_**. To live, and be filled with the same vitality and passion he had been exuding only weeks prior. It had taken them so long to get to where they were now, two years had gone by wasted, and what would they have to show for it? A handful of contented months that were interrupted by this, by having the rug torn from under their feet in the most harrowing way imaginable, that was all they’d have. And if what Charlotte had said was true, if this _was_ something that was spreading from man to man, that meant he had it too. And he isn’t sure what to do with that information just yet— it’s practically a death sentence, if the way Whizzer’s case has been handled is any indication, considering the lack of funds and medicine the hospital was willing to put into this situation. People are scared. The doctors tiptoe around this ward, many avoid it altogether, hence the amount of volunteers, and they’re so wary that disposable gloves have basically become a required part of the uniform when dealing with infected men. He didn’t want that. He didn’t want to be a part of any of that.

 

There was so much to stick around for— he had a son, he had friends, he had a job. He wanted to watch his son graduate. He wanted to watch Jason grow up. But he didn’t want to do it all on his own; he didn’t want to do it without Whizzer at his side. How is he supposed to make it through this and be expected to hang in there when he knows what’s coming? And when he knows there won’t be a lover by his side to hold him through it all? Subconsciously he runs the pad of his thumb across Whizzer’s knuckles as familiar hands keep him close, and finds he can’t imagine life without Whizzer Brown. The man waltzed into his life unexpected and shook it all up like his neat family life was a snow globe, smashing the glass in the process. And he had treated him so _poorly_ ; it isn’t that he regrets the first half of their relationship, because while there was plenty to regret he didn’t want to condemn all the better moments they’d shared years ago, but he wishes that he’d had the balls to call Whizzer. That he could have called him before the game and could have allowed them at least a little more time. But that wouldn’t change how much this hurt. It wouldn’t change the fact that he’d still have to lay here and wonder what the hell he was going to do without this man who had turned his life upside down for the better. He closes his eyes and prays for the second time since he brought Whizzer to the hospital, he prays for more time. He prays for Whizzer to be spared. He prays for a second chance. He prays until he’s fallen asleep on that cramped hospital bed.

 

 

In the morning, Marvin does his best to follow the routine they’ve fallen into since arriving here. Numbed by his thoughts from the night, he maintains soft smiles and fusses with the bedsheets and stands by as the doctors follow through with their own routines. Whizzer is compliant and behaving as he had the rest of the time he’s been here as though he never received the news. He allows the nurse who was assigned his room to dress the splotches mottling his skin and test he reflexes and sight without saying a word unless asked to. Whenever Marvin’s looking he offers reassuring smiles that don’t seem to connect with the rest of his body, and when he thinks Marvin isn’t looking he allows himself to look as sick and desolate as he felt. Marvin noticed. Marvin always noticed.

 

Charlotte stops by to check on them before leaving to address her official patients, and Cordelia stops by for a couple minutes when she delivered Charlotte’s lunch later in the day. Otherwise, Marvin and Whizzer are uninterrupted for the duration of the day. It allows Whizzer to rest as much as he needs to without feeling obligated to stay awake and present for visitors, and it gave Marvin time to breathe and finish reading the book that had been sitting on the bedside table. While he’d originally brought it for Whizzer, it was clear his lover hadn’t the energy or ability to focus on the text long enough to make a dent, so he’d picked it up out of boredom and had made a habit of reading a few chapters whenever Whizzer succumbed to sleep.

 

He’s halfway through the second to last chapter when he pauses, stealing a glance at his lover ( who is engaged in a game of solitaire, to keep his mind active and off impending expiration dates ) before folding the corner of the page to bookmark it. A thought had come to him, but being fully aware that it could potentially be a horrible one, he’s hesitant to voice said thought. But better to have tried than not, right? Taking a deep breath, Marvin curls his fingers around the edges of the book.

 

“I think we should consider reaching out to your parents.”

 

It’s suggested softly, with the care taken to diffuse a bomb. Whizzer stiffens, expression turning unfamiliarly cold in a way Marvin’s never seen before, not even in the ugliest of their fights; it’s like a line has been overstepped and a fresh wall has been built up in a matter of seconds. That wasn’t what he wanted. They’d already spent so much time taking walls apart brick by brick to be erecting any now. The card in Whizzer’s hand hovers above a pile laid out on the over-bed table, forgotten.

 

“ _No._ ”

 

Tone unwavering and sharp jawline set, Whizzer stares at the wall behind Marvin’s head, open to a grand total of no arguments.

 

“You won’t even _consider_ it? Whizzer, you’re—“

 

“I know.”

 

“They’d want to—“

 

“They wouldn’t.”

 

Short answers weren’t uncommon these days, due to horrendous fatigue, but the clipped fashion they were now delivered with was reticent and reminded Marvin of what now seemed like ancient arguments. Each word is carefully and deliberately chosen, as though practiced a hundred times over. It was absolute; his parents would not be contacted if he had anything to do with it. Whizzer had never spoken about his parents before, and frankly, Marvin was pretty tight-lipped about his own parents, but what with the current situation, he’s surprised Whizzer still refuses to even try reestablishing some form of contact with his parents. Even if it could be his last chance. _If_ , Marvin repeats, _if_ it could be his last chance. A miracle could happen. 

 

“How do you know that?” he presses gingerly, knowing full well he should have dropped the subject as soon as Whizzer had rejected the idea.

 

“Because if you called, they’d tell you they didn’t _have_ a son to visit,” Whizzer replies flatly, expression and tone ultimately blank. Marvin shifts uncomfortably in his seat. He’s not surprised, it was what he had assumed was the case, but a cold sensation reached his gut and spread through his limbs anyways. If his parents had known about his being gay, if he hadn’t essentially been estranged after Jason’s birth, their reaction probably would have been similar. Dwelling on it for a moment, Marvin realizes it probably wouldn’t have been too different a reaction from the one he got when he revealed to his parents that Trina was pregnant and her father was insisting on marriage before the news got out and ruined any family names. But by the disdainful expression on his mother’s sharp face and the sorrowful one that had his father’s stout frame slumped in disappointment, Marvin had known that he’d already ruined his own. His parents had visited to see a newborn Jason, but dropped communications entirely after that. He’d been too wrapped up in maintaining a livable wage for himself and his new family to care much about that at the time. Privately he swears never to treat his own son with such disdain and apathy. If he’d done so previously, he’s repenting now.

 

They sit in silence for a spell, Marvin trying desperately to ignore the elephant in the room— the news he’d received should have broken him in two like a log meeting an ax, but he’s gotten so good at pretending everything’s okay that he hasn’t allowed it to sink in yet. Whizzer continues to stare distantly at the wall, gaze devoid of any indication that he was present in mind. It was happening more frequently, and every time Marvin caught it it made his insides curl. It shouldn’t be possible for someone as vibrant and charismatic as Whizzer Brown to be reduced to a frail zombie of a man, barely able to function on his own or supply smiles that actually reached his eyes. Damn it, he _missed_ those smiles. He missed the way Whizzer’s eyes squinted and hints of a set of handsome dimples made a brief appearance when he grinned; he missed laughter he could only justify comparing to sunshine, as cheesy as it sounded. The man beside him now, looking to his cards is slight confusion, obviously lost as to where he was in his game or what the objective was ( he’d been forgetting more things more often and taking longer to recover and it was scaring the _shit_ out of Marvin ), was the same one he’d been shamelessly flirting with that day on the baseball field, but it was difficult to find similarities anymore. Reaching over to take the card out of Whizzer’s hand and entangling their fingers, he decides that wasn’t important now.

 

“If you don’t want to contact them, that’s fine. We won’t,” he promises, somewhat relieved to be able to make one he could actually keep as he presses a kiss to his lover’s knuckles, “But _please_ , at least tell me why.”

 

Whizzer studies his expression for a moment, obviously taking a beat to consider his options. He could flat out refuse and maintain his silence as far as his history was concerned, or he could open up to at least one person he knew he could trust with the story. It didn’t seem relevant anymore— it felt as though it transpired so long ago and hadn’t come to haunt him until now. So what was the big deal? What could Marvin _possibly_ get out of hearing his sob story? But perhaps he owed it to Marvin to share. Neither of them spoke of anything in their lives before college, and Whizzer had always been adamant about not sharing any information or pictures that were so much as over ten years old. Marvin had only told him about how he’d gotten Trina knocked up and beyond, and had only seen pictures he found in one of Marvin’s old yearbooks that he’d flipped through out of boredom one day while on his own. They both had some sharing to do now, before they ran out of time to tell tales.

 

“There’s not much to say,” Whizzer sighs, ultimately relenting, “I was eighteen when I told my folks I was queer. My mother cried, and my father cursed me out before kicking me to the curb after giving me a nice shiner to show off. Threw out all my stuff the next day and never tried to find where I ran off to. Which was fine by me, I made it just fine on my own.”

 

Marvin listened intently, eyebrows drawn together in absorption. Lifting a hand to gently brush his thumb against Whizzer’s cheek, as though somehow he could heal whatever bruise still lived as a ghost under the pale skin, he tries to imagine the scene. Tries to imagine anyone being so hateful that it turns them blind to what is important— he knows he could _never_ turn Jason away like that. He loved his son, no conditions. The smile his touch brings to Whizzer’s lips makes Marvin’s heart leap; it’s the first _**genuine**_ smile he’s seen on that face in days.

 

“It’s not like I made it _easy_ for them to find me. Moved from place to place in the city for a while, staying with whoever would take me in. They’d keep me around for a good couple of screws, buy me nice things and plenty of alcohol, then in a couple of weeks I was in someone else’s apartment doing the same thing ‘cause the last guy got bored. It was _fun_ , I’m not saying it wasn’t, but I was still a kid. Not sure when that stopped, but every kid wants his parents every now and again. Sucked to know I didn’t have any anymore. There was no backup plan,” Whizzer continued nonchalantly, “Hate to think what would’ve happened if my old man caught me standing by the front door of that apartment, though. I’d probably get my ass kicked— those karate lessons ended when I was, like, _ten_.”

 

The joke falls short because Marvin’s too busy stewing in hatred for a man he’s never met to supply any laughter, previous bliss smeared across the floor. He’d take the disappointment in his father’s eyes over a raging homophobe of a man any day. How a man could raise a son, watch him grow into a young man, and then treat him so cruelly over something that had nothing to do with him personally baffled Marvin. A father was supposed to raise his son, teach him about the world, show him the importance of life and hard work and **_love_**. A man cared for his family, no matter who or what it consisted of. A man, a father, did not turn his son away with the back of his hand. And while Whizzer certainly wasn’t an innocent person, with many things to repent for under his belt, he didn’t deserve to be knocked around for who he was and who he loved. He wants to hold his lover close and tight, as though to compensate for any harm that had come to him before now, despite being painfully aware that any pain he’d suffered prior couldn’t compete with the pain he was in now. At a loss, he shook his head.

 

“My parents halted communications after Jason was born,” he confesses, figuring he might as well give up his story to make things fair, “They threw Trina and I into the marriage to save us all some dignity, and once she had Jason, they took one look at him and walked out entirely. Thankfully her parents remained involved, but after a year of trying to reach my own, I gave up.”

 

Judging by the expression on Whizzer’s face, it was his turn to be at a loss.

 

“I promised myself I wouldn’t do that to Jason. Promised I wouldn’t let my family down and fail them, too. Now look at me— I’ve even failed _you_.”

 

And a **man** doesn’t fail, he’s always told himself. Whether it was during a football game in high school, wanting to impress his sweetheart in the stands or studying hard for exams or staring at his newborn son, he told himself that he wouldn’t, couldn’t, fail. It’d make him less of a man; what did he have left of his manhood now, sitting beside his ill lover and reeking of failure? Whizzer brings their joined hands to his lips, consolation worn plainly on his face.

 

“You haven’t failed me. You haven’t failed _anyone_. You’ve been at my side this whole time. You turned yourself around for your son. You’re living a life you denied yourself for _so long_ ; I don’t consider that failing, Marv.”

 

Touched, but feeling the rooted dread in his gut bloom inside him the longer he looked at Whizzer, knowing he could only hold on to this for so long before it was stolen from his red hands, Marvin can only give their hands a gentle squeeze. It felt silly, being consoled by the man laid up in a hospital bed with numbered days looming over his head. Crestfallen and fighting nausea, he nods slowly. 

 

“Just stay right here,” Whizzer coaxes, moving the over-bed table aside and scooting over to make room in the bed. It wasn’t as comfortable as the one they shared at home, but it beat the visitor’s chair and having Marvin beside him provided a source of comfort and much-needed heat from the closeness, “Let’s forget about our shitty parents and just relax.”

 

Relaxing seemed to be the last possible thing Marvin felt capable of doing, but as soon as he’s on the bed and Whizzer’s arms are around him, he’s unwinding and melting into his lover’s thinned frame. He’s almost dozed off entirely, exhaustion creeping up on him like a shadow, when he hears Whizzer whisper something so softly it’s as though he’s telling a secret.

 

“I love you.”

 

And Marvin hadn’t struggled to maintain his composure and not allow sobs to wrack his body that hard since he was child.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took almost a month to finish, life got really busy really fast! I hope I made up for it in length this time! As always, feedback of any kind is what keeps me motivated!


	11. Mortem

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long, but it was difficult to find the time and right words for this chapter. Comments are always appreciated, as per usual. Just one more chapter to go!

“Should we really go through with this?”

 

Trina’s brow creases, even as her husband’s hands move on autopilot to comfortingly embrace her, whispered words hanging in the air. Standing in the hall outside of Whizzer’s room, the door is closed and Whizzer is alone for the first time in a long while as Marvin and the others work to prepare for an impromptu bar mitzvah, eyeing the unopened bottle of champagne Jason had insisted they needed as it sat on the floor in front of the nurse’s station, nothing felt right. The couple hold tight to whatever they can to remain steadied and composed as everything erupted around them in slow motion— neither had signed up for this, neither had major obligations tying them here aside from Jason. They had become friendly with Whizzer, and perhaps they had all become an odd menagerie of people that could be referred to as some sort of mismatched family, but to visit his bedside as frequently as they had wasn’t expected of them. Yet they came anyways. They came, and despite past incidents, they cared. Trina had expected never to see Whizzer Brown again after he’d handed her the prints of her wedding photographs; she’d have preferred that to have been the last time she saw him. Because then at least the last time she’d have seen him would be on a good note, he’d have looked healthy and wasn’t wasting away in a hospital bed beside her desolate ex-husband. Because at this rate, she’d be consoling both a grieving man and his son, and she isn’t sure she’s up for that.

 

But Mendel gives her a grim smile, a sense of 'what can you do' lacing the expression, and presses a kiss to her forehead. She didn't have to ask or press to know he had the same concerns, he was fairly transparent and wore all emotion on his sleeve. He was as torn about this hastily thrown together plan as she was.

 

"It's too late to back out of it now-- Marvin will be here any second and I'd hate to see how he would react to our canceling this last second," there's a pause before an addition is tacked on, "I'd hate to see how _Jason_ would react to is calling it off."

 

Nodding with remorse, Trina presses delicate fingers to her lips. Jason would most definitely respond poorly if they decided his, as Marvin had called it when his son pitched it to him, 'brilliant' idea wasn't going to be seen through to reality. Whether it would result in a tantrum or tears, she isn’t quite sure anymore. Every single person she seems to make eye contact with these last few days seems to hold a promise in their eyes that they could crumble at any moment, herself included. Jason was still a child, one that was alarmingly mature for his age, but a child nonetheless. No child should be exposed to this level of distress and grief so early. Especially not one that has already been through enough turmoil as her son had. This was his choice, he had the final say in all things bar mitzvah, they’d promised Jason that. It would be wrong to go back on that word now just because they didn’t want it to become something he’d look back on and only remember something painful. It would be wrong to go back on that word for their own sakes as well. So it unspokenly goes decided between them that the bar mitzvah will proceed as planned, whether that would be a good thing or a damned one.

 

Besides, when Jason had brought his plan up to his father in a rare moment where the man was in the hall rather than at a bedside, it had been the first time Trina had seen Marvin wear a genuine smile in almost a week. For one brief moment he wasn’t drowning in his thoughts or premature grief or the worries wrapped tight around his heart like constricting weeds, he was looking forward to something. Almost immediately, Marvin had become invested, and Trina hadn’t the heart to shut it down then and there ( which had been the first time she’d heard of it herself ). Jason wanted everyone he cared about at his bar mitzvah, and with a tight time budget looming over all their heads, they only had a small window of opportunity for that wish to be granted within. There were more reason to go through with it than there were to cancel. Taking his wife’s hands within his own, Mendel once again offers a smile he hopes will soothe as it so often does.

 

“All we can do now is be there and pray this thing goes as smoothly as it possibly can.”

 

A fine eyebrow is lifted as Trina leans back slightly to stare him down with a quizzical ( if not calculating ) look, something not usually drawn out by words he may have recited to a patient.

 

“I thought you believed prayers were for, what was it you said, _‘the weak and the dumb’_?”

 

“I do,” Mendel admits with enough decency to look a little bashful, “I’m fairly certain the last time I legitimately prayed was at my own bar mitzvah, but we’re in need of a little divine intervention. Miracles only tend to come when you pray for them, or so I’ve heard.”

 

“Hopefully it’s not too late for a miracle,” Trina sighs, tension giving way to defeat as her shoulders loose their rigidity when Mendel presses a kiss to her forehead, “We could use a few.”

 

Charlotte and Cordelia have been preparing all day, Cordelia putting the finishing touches on her platters made to serve roughly two hundred people that would most likely get tossed afterwards, and Charlotte tended to patients to keep herself occupied and trying to keep her mind on what she could do rather than all she couldn’t. Charlotte had ensured the nurses were aware of what would be happening during the evening so that their event would go uninterrupted; she was the only doctor necessary in that room once the door was shut. Having extra people around would only make the doctors feel somewhat awkward ( Jason would surely say something about their presence ) and it would only make the underlying concerns more prevalent. They were trying to enjoy themselves regardless of their current situation, this was supposed to be enjoyed despite of all the heartache and morbidity; the venue would be enough of a reminder of what they wanted to keep off their minds. It would just be the seven of them, per Jason's request, to Cordelia's agony. Seven people could only eat so many hors d'oeuvres in one night, after all.

 

They arrive at the door of Whizzer's quiet hospital room about the same time as Marvin and Jason. Marvin's dressed in his best suit, though the signs of great anxiety is still worn plainly in the form of dark circles and tight smile, with a prayer shawl and a number of bags in hand. Jason holds tight to a bottle of champagne as though it were a lifeline, something that draws an amused smile to his mother's lips. With careful quietness they ensure they have all they need, a list thoughtfully composed by Trina is produced and once everything is accounted for, the adults exchange looks of hesitation over Jason's head. There was no going back.

 

"Alright kid," Marvin murmurs as Mendel places a hand on each of Jason's shoulders, "You ready?"

 

Jason chews on his bottom lip for a moment before nodding and raising a hand to knock on Whizzer's door-- the rest do their best to try and pretend like _they're_ ready. Eyes fixate on the door, stomachs churning.

 

\----

 

Another round of solitaire is abandoned on the bedside table, mind too dissipated to get Whizzer's too far into any game. A couple cigarettes lay crushed in the ashtray from a few days ago, before Charlotte outright forbid it inside the room. He'd tucked it behind the flowers Trina had brought as a gift the first time she visited him here, and he'd watched about three petals shrivel and drop off the neglected plant before Marvin had replaced them with a new arrangement. To himself, Whizzer's wonders if that will be what happens to what gets left on his grave as well. It only stays in his head for a moment before he resolves that it wouldn't really matter.

 

It's difficult to focus on anything that isn't wholly terrifying now that he knows whatever is wrong with his body can't be fixed. Not that he's terrified, of course, he'd had a feeling the moment he started showing symptoms and reports started being released. He'd known when Charlotte sat him down on the sofa to get a better look at him and question him about his supposed fever. He'd known. But there was a difference between connecting the dots on your own and being told by a doctor with very little empathy that you've only a few days left to live. And lying here in this hospital bed hooked up to a drip and no energy to stay awake for longer than a few hours at a time was how he was supposed to live those days out. All he could do was lay there like a sitting duck and wait for death to come take his hands and capture him in a morbid waltz when it decided to come knocking.

 

Sheets balled up in his fists and eyes screwed up tightly Whizzer tries to muster up enough strength to say _'screw this'_ to the universe. Accepting the role of sitting duck was never part of his plan. It's cramp his style, quite frankly. If he was going to go, he'd be ready. He'd be prepared to face his last dancing partner with his chin held high and shoulders set, because tears and pleas and bargaining will get him nowhere. They haven't done any of them any good thus far, so why continue to try a method that produces no results? That would just be moronic, and Whizzer Brown was no moron. If he had to go in his prime ( he was still so _young_ , damn everything, especially damn the notion that everything happens for a reason because it'd mean he was just some sort of cautionary tale and nothing more ) at least let it be with some dignity. Looking up, he decides he deserves at least that much, if nothing else.

 

It wasn't as though he were blameless or innocent by any means. He's done terrible things with the time he'd been granted, he had been selfish and ruined lives that had been sewn together with delicate care without a single moment of hesitation. And he'd never felt remorse or guilt, either. Perhaps that made him a terrible person, he can allow that, but it certainly wouldn't be what damned him. No, he felt no shame for who he was or who he chose to love, despite it being what put him here. But even the sorest of sinners looked for absolution every now and again-- he'd finally found the closest thing to a family he'd ever known ( because the one that he was born into couldn't be counted anymore ) and he hadn't even been looking for it. But now he had to leave them as suddenly as he'd joined them both times he'd entered their lives. And he didn't have a choice; Whizzer hated not having a choice. He hated everything about this.

 

He hated waiting around with nothing to do. He hated looking at faces he knows he should recognize but can't put a name to the person for a horrible moment he knows they take notice of. He hated watching Marvin force smiles and fearfully hesitate every time he has to leave his bedside for even a minute. He hated watching as the bags under his lover's eyes deepen with each passing day and not being able to do more than hold his hand and press kisses to his temple when they lay together in this bed that would have barely fit just Whizzer before he'd started wasting away. If there were something more he could do, he'd do it. If there were a way to not feel this powerless and drained, he'd do whatever it took. He'd bounce back from this like everyone is still hoping so desperately that he will, be able to give them smile that felt more genuine and didn't get ones back that looked so sad.

 

Pushing himself to sit, he admits that it doesn't really matter. Tying his robe tighter ( he's basically a walking skeleton now, all the effort he'd put into his physique wasted ) he admits there's nothing to be done at this point. Tugging the hat Trina had knit for him when his hair began falling out in clumps, which had been extremely kind on her part as that had been what upset him more than anything else since being admitted, he admits that all he can do now is face the enemy with ferocity and grace at once. Because as he slowly reaches over to grip the arm of the chair Marvin has practically lived in for the past week and lowers himself into it, he decides that he's ready. Let death come while he's prepared. Let it come and twirl him around and him a tune of passion in his ear before it strikes. Let it come while there was no one there to beg it to stay awake for just another hour or another day.

 

Let it come while he's confident everything will be alright if he goes now.

 

_Let him go—_

 

He doesn't realize he's broken down into quiet sobs until a hesitant knock sounds on his door. Drawing in a few steadying breaths he makes an attempt to feign composure, so he doesn't worry Marvin or whatever nurse has come to check on him. Wiping furiously at his eyes and sniffling to try and pull his facade together, he answers.

 

"--Come in!"

 

Jason pokes his head in first, arms tucked behind his back and wearing the kind of smile that gave away a secret without anything having to be spoken; he doesn't seem to notice anything was wrong for once. Not that Whizzer was going to complain, instead he greeted the boy with a warm smile.

 

"Jason! Come on in," he beckons, and Jason obliges but just enough so that he was out of the doorway.

 

"So I was in the middle of my English homework when a solution to my problem became clear," the kid begins, as though he's about to launch into an epic story, "I figured if I can't have **everybody** at my bar mitzvah if we have it somewhere else, we could have it right here!"

 

A bottle of champagne is produced from behind his back with a wide grin; it's been too long since he's seen that kind of enthusiasm on anyone's face, let alone Jason's.

 

"Surprise!"

 

The others enter the room, everyone's arms full of supplies or food or anything deemed necessary enough to bring for the occasion, all sporting smiles of varying cheer. Transparent as their excitement was, apprehension thinly veiled, Whizzer was touched nonetheless and moved all over again. Mendel claps him on the shoulder as he dispenses what he'd brought on the bed as he and Charlize begin to rearrange the room, and Trina pulls the bedside table over to drape white cloth across it. Cordelia immediately seizes the bedside table and sets up her catering spread of tupperware along its small surface. Whizzer moves to stand, and immediately Marvin is at his side, hooking his free hand under his elbow for support.

 

"This was entirely Jason's brilliant idea," he admits, ensuring no credit was given to him for any of this, emphasizing the fact that Jason had insisted on ensuring Whizzer be included himself, "Don't you worry about a thing, we have everything taken care of."

 

Prayer shawl is playfully draped around his shoulders, and Whizzer found himself smiling.

 

"You're wearing a suit," he murmurs pointedly, impressed, "I didn't think you owned one."

 

"Had to rent it," Marvin admits with a soft laugh, mirroring his lover's smile as Whizzer's fingers moved to fix his tie and run along the fabric of the suit distractedly. Smile sobers after a moment, hands lifting to cradle the other's face with the greatest of care, "If this isn't alright with you, I'm sure we can--"

 

"Marvin, I'll be fine," Whizzer assures, supplying a tired smile in hopes of soothing concerns; funnily enough it looked entirely different than the one Mendel was currently offering his wife before handing Charlotte the bottle of champagne to pop open.

 

"Are you sure?"

 

"I'll be okay."

 

Meant to reassure, his words come out as though they were a promise. Before Marvin can say anything more, Mendel is handing them both glasses of champagne and he's distracted by an overly enthusiastic Jason choking on his drink ( the look of disgust and disappointment on the boy's face is enough to make them all laugh quietly to themselves with amusement ). Trina circles around with a camera, and while he'd never been one to shy away from a camera before, Whizzer's suddenly unwilling. He didn't want any reminders of what he looked like in this state left behind, memory of it would be hard enough for them all to handle as it was. But Trina's insistent so he obliges for one group picture, Jason nestled in the middle of this odd group they've deemed to be something akin to family.

 

"Lovely!" Trina trills, setting the camera aside to focus on getting things set up as Mendel and Marvin begin gathering everything Jason would need.

 

"I apologize if I should interfere at all," Whizzer announces, holding his glass of champagne as high as his arm would allow, ignoring the looks his words spurned, "But given that I'm the host of this event, I'd like to be the one to toast him."

 

Jason turns to him with a look he can't decipher and Trina, Cordelia, and Charlotte raise their glasses.

 

"To Jason's bar mitzvah."

 

He envelops Jason in a hug, glad to have been able to do that much on his own.

 

"To Jason's bar mitzvah," the rest chorus and take their drinks before setting the glasses aside to continue setting up. Whizzer and Jason are both pulled along to change while candles are lit and food is picked at warily.

 

It runs smoothly for the most part, and the sentiment behind it doesn't go unnoticed or unappreciated by its host. Because as Jason recites his prayers, Whizzer stands there with Marvin providing support to keep him in place, he realizes that this kid meant a great deal to him. He'd never cared for children, never wanted them nor considered them as an option. He was a gay man, he'd surrounded himself with a crowd that wasn't interested in settling, and had lived a free life with no commitment and no rules and no expectations. But then he'd met Marvin and got roped into his family charades and wound up with a soft spot for the guy's son. He'd expected Jason to hate his guts, expected him to see him as nothing more than the man who split his family apart. But the kid took a shine to him after a handful of brief and strained meetings, and Whizzer unexpectedly developed a fondness for Jason. The kid thought the world of him, today proved as much, and he was incredibly thankful for that; he was grateful for all of them, truthfully.

 

But only a few minutes in, he can feel himself begin to weaken, the excitement and being on his feet for so long getting to him. Vision swings and knees buckle, but luckily Marvin’s right there to catch and steady him as he begins to drop, and Charlotte’s already making her way over. Reaching out trembling fingers, he gently touches Jason on the shoulder and offers an apologetic ( albeit grateful ) smile.

 

“ _Thank you._ ”

 

Whispered words cause a wrinkle of fear to pass through Jason’s features as he stares up at a man he considered a fatherly figure as the two men who were his fathers by blood and law. A man who lived with the vibrancy of a firework show should not go out with a whisper. He deserved to die with the passion that used to radiate from his being without his having to do more than flash a smile. Jason didn’t want him to die. As Whizzer allowed himself to lean his full weight into Marvin and Charlotte moves beside them for the hand-off, Jason’s eyes don’t leave the tall shell of a man he’d once admired. Part of him wants to cry. Part of him wants to yell, to scream at Whizzer, at his father, at Charlotte, at God for not doing enough, for not fixing what was wrong, for the unfairness of it all. But instead he just watches as Charlotte guides Whizzer back to his bed, Marvin not letting go of his lover’s hand until Charlotte sternly sends them all outside.

 

“I think it’d be best to clear the room now,” she says, tone indicating that while worded as a suggestion, it was an order.

 

Trina’s hands gently guide Jason outside the room, pausing briefly to blow out the candles, Cordelia following with as many containers as her arms would allow her to carry at once and holding back a choked sob, and Mendel closing the door behind them with a look of unparalleled pity. Marvin’s too busy holding tight to Whizzer’s hand and watching his chest rise and fall unevenly to notice Charlotte watching him, trying to find it in her to force him to leave the room. They were both too acutely aware of what the situation at hand was, but she had to remain professional, even if only for her own selfish reasons. So a hand goes to Marvin’s shoulder and grabs his attention; he stares at her like he isn’t sure she’s really standing there or if this was an awful dream and her teeth sink into her lower lip to ground her to reality. One of them had to remain rooted.

 

“I need you to step into the hall, Marvin.”

 

“But I—“

 

She shakes her head, firm. Marvin looks a wreck already, exhausted and fearful, and it twists her heart further.

 

“I need you to step outside. I’ll get you as soon as I can.”

 

Unwillingly, Marvin nods and hesitates visibly before pressing a kiss to Whizzer’s hand a moment before he’s forced to let it go. Sparing one last glance at Charlotte as he moves to leave the room, Marvin slips out into the hall with the rest of his family, leaving the doctor and patient alone in thick silence.

 

Words refuse to come to him, energy ephemeral as Whizzer feels Marvin’s hand slip away from brittle fingers he barely recognizes as his own, but supplies the best smile he can muster. Let it say all he physically can’t. Let it convey all the apologies and declarations of love and reassurances he can’t form verbally. Lover’s presence is replaced by a doctor he doesn’t recognize, and Whizzer attempts to peer around the nurses suddenly prodding him ( they’d slipped in when the rest left, but to his distorted senses it was as though they materialized out of thin air ) to watch as Charlotte ushers Marvin from the room, his chest heaving in desperation. _Don’t go, don’t make him go, don’t leave me here on my own–_

 

Gently, Charlotte takes Whizzer’s hand as she fixes his bedding so it lay comfortably on him as a nurse places him under temporary sedation. Please, she prayed, let this be as comfortable as circumstances could allow it to be. She moves the tables to one side of the room, careful not to disturb any of the bar mitzvah decorations still strewn about, so the room feels a tad more spacious. It gave her something to do, but for once busy work didn’t make her feel like she was doing much of anything. So she monitors the machines and drips and adjusts Whizzer’s hat with great care. The doctors and nurses move away, convinced they've done all they can for a dying man they don't know.

 

“I wish I could have done more,” Charlotte murmurs once they clear out, knowing well enough that even if Whizzer is conscious and unclaimed by sleep at this point, he wouldn’t say anything to comfort her. She doesn’t want him to. Because she’s just speaking the truth; she did what she could, but it wasn’t enough. She wishes with all her being that there could have been more for her to do for him. Maybe, just maybe, she could have prevented this if she’d insisted he get checked out that day he visited and had been blatantly shown symptoms. Maybe if she’d caught it then they could have had more time to help him. At the very least, it would have allowed them more time together. She could say she’d done everything she could.

 

“I’m sorry this was the best you got,” she continues unsteadily, watching his unchanging features, hollowed and discolored, devoid of all the life he’d wielded like a weapon only a month ago, “But know that we love you, all of us. We love you so much, Whizzer Brown. And we will never forget you. That’s a promise. And you know how I hate making those.”

 

Composure is lost as her voice breaks and she’s left there standing beside his bed, shoulders shaking. It takes a few minutes to recompose herself, wiping at her face and trying to keep her hands from trembling as feverishly as they did now. She’s watched people come and go through this hospital, in this very room, but never has she had to watch someone she consider family pass away and still not know what it was that had laid claim on their life. It shook her to her very core, the helplessness attached to this case and the underwhelming support they were getting for these men, even as their virus continued to spread. It was a crime. And until there was a cure, until she knew there was something that worked and could prevent this level of heartache from continuing to happen, she wouldn’t rest. She owed Whizzer that much, and Marvin as well if the theories about this disease being sexually transmitted were true. She owed it to herself to get to the bottom of this.

 

Soon enough she’s quieted herself, and the only sound filling the room is Whizzer’s ragged breathing. Protocol called for her to wear gloves while handling patients with this unknown disease, she decided to screw protocol for the first time since being employed here, holding tightly to Whizzer’s frail hand. Contact was important, it was one of the first things they taught you, and she needed it as much as Whizzer did in this moment.

 

——

 

Outside, Marvin paced ceaselessly, yarmulke tucked in his pocket and suit rumpled from his constant pulling at it. Mendel had taken Jason home, and for once Jason didn’t argue. Trina stayed behind to watch Marvin with a careful eye and in an attempt to keep her pity for this man who had put her through so much strife, she kept her eyes trained on the floor at her shoes. Cordelia sat in a chair, fingers pressed to her lips as she watched the door. No one could speak. No one dared to try.

 

The moment Charlotte steps into the hall, they’re all on their feet and at full attention, eyes wide in anticipation for whatever news she had to spare. Marvin swallows thickly, trying to meet her gaze, fingers running through his hair. Charlotte gently places a hand on his back and moves him a few steps away from the others, voice almost too quiet to hear.

 

“He’s not going to last the night,” she informs with great delicacy, brow creasing in concern, “Realistically, the statistics we have say he should have passed a day or ago, so—“

 

“I need to see him” Marvin’s voice breaks, volume increased in desperation, already moving for the door. The suddenness and intensity of his reaction causes Trina and Cordelia to jump slightly, and he’s not sure who a small sob comes from, but he doesn’t rightly care at the moment to check. Charlotte tries to console, tries to keep him from barging into the room, but he’s pushing and on the verge of tears and trying to deny any truth to her words. She was a professional, but every professional could be discredited. Let this be one of the times a miracle struck and made everything okay again.

 

“ _Marvin—_ “

 

“I need to see him, Charlotte. I need to be there, he can’t be alone. Please,” pleas shoot from his mouth at rapid fire, hand still on the doorknob where she’s placed her hand over his, “I need to stay with him.”

 

“There was nothing we could do.”

 

Silence hung in the air, begging for someone to fill it. Marvin’s heart is pounding mercilessly against his ribcage, frantic and desperately trying to keep from splintering into a million pieces. He couldn’t do this, he couldn’t listen to any more of this talk. It did as much good for Whizzer as the futile actions had. There wasn’t time for that.

 

“I know.”

 

With that, he’s pushing past her and slipping into the room and is back at his place in the chair at Whizzer’s bedside. Charlotte watches the door close in her face, but doesn’t move to do anything about it. Instead she opts for allowing them the privacy. Cordelia’s arms wrap around her to console, and for the first time Charlotte feels guilty for having someone to hold her through this.

 

Marvin encloses one of Whizzer’s hands within his own, holding joined fingers to his trembling lips, trying to calm his rampant thoughts. This couldn’t be it. This couldn’t be all they got. They’d just found a way to live together, found a way to be happy, and now it’s dissipating before his eyes. His hand receives a weak squeeze, a sign that any sedation has begun to wear away, and a sob gets caught in his throat. They needed more time. Just another day. A few more hours. Something.

 

Fury towards an unforgiving universe stirred in Whizzer’s chest, rattling around in his lungs as fits of coughing lifted frail frame from its hospital bed; it wasn’t **_fair_**. It wasn’t fair that this was all they got. And as his eyes crack open for just a moment to bleakly study his lover’s shape something constricts his heart, and it could only be what he assumes guilt feels like.

 

He hadn’t believed it possible to go through the stages of grief when it was your own loss to mourn. Denail had come and gone, left him furious with the world and with whatever god had decided this was what he deserved when he’d only just reached his prime, and bargaining had been an hour’s past time when he woke at two in the morning and had a moment to himself to break, followed by depression he maintained by masking it with reassuring smiles. He felt fine, he’d kept repeating, he felt much better today, he was going to be okay. But he didn’t feel fine, and he wasn’t going to be okay, and he had little choice but to accept that fact as it grows steadily more difficult to breathe.

 

The look on Jason’s face is ingrained in his mind, knotted eyebrows and eyes widened by a befuddled sort of fear. the amount of times he’s seen Marvin give him the exact same look in the last week or so is innumerable. As Whizzer lies there struggling to hang on to the little consciousness he can find, he wonders if it had been right of him to go to that baseball game and disrupt the peace the people he now considered family had built in his absence. Was it selfish of him not to regret the last few months?

 

Even if it was, Whizzer couldn’t find it in himself to repent.

 

One of his lover’s hands holds to his own like a vice while the other shifts to cup his cheek, thumb stroking protruding cheekbone, wiping involuntary tears away in the process. If he could find words, he’s apologize. If he could find words, he’d tell Marvin he loved him, just one last time. Marvin murmurs enough reassurances and declarations of love for them both. After they’ve stayed like that for a good ten minutes, Whizzer can’t steadily draw air in and out of his lungs and clinging to consciousness feels laborious, and Marvin notices. Swallowing thickly, he nods his head, admitting to himself that this was it. These were the cards dealt to them, they had to see them game through. he couldn’t beg Whizzer to hang on any longer if it pained him to do so.

 

“It’s okay,” he whispers through tears, resting his forehead against his lover’s, “You’re okay. You can let go. You can let go, love.”

 

A few more unsteady breaths are drawn in and exhaled back out of Whizzer’s lungs before his body stills entirely.

 

Marvin falls apart entirely, still clutching his hand.


	12. The Visit

Funeral arrangements are made hastily, and the funeral itself is a large blur in Marvin’s mind. All he can recall is numbly standing there, watching the coffin lower into the ground, and sobbing uncontrollably into Charlotte’s shoulder. He ought to hate her, blame her for not doing enough. But where had throwing blame around ever gotten him before? And he knew, undoubtedly, that Charlotte DuBois had done absolutely everything in her power to save Whizzer, and looking into her face once he’d finally calmed enough to steady his breathing, that she was as broken up about the failure at hand as he was. He could see it in the heavy bags under her eyes that mirrored his own. He could see it in the way she held herself, the pride she used to exude damaged beyond repair. He could see it in the way he doesn't see her as often anymore.

 

But she remained close by his side throughout the funeral, _right_ there to catch him when his knees gave way to grief as it seized his heart and stalled his breathing. The sob that erupts from his lungs is hauntingly similar in sound to the death rattle of a cough that had often trickled past late lover's lips. It made Charlotte's skin break out in uneasy goosebumps. She and Marvin had kept the news of his possible infection between them to stall any spread of the news amongst what remained of their family. No further ripples of hurt needed to be made just yet; they were still recovering. Mourning. _Coping_.

 

Shiva is sat, the mourning process seen through the way it was expected of them in honor of a man who deserved it. The period passes, much like the funeral, in a blur full of desaturated color and the consistent feeling of surrealism weighing Marvin's entire being down. Grief was ever present, tangible on his tongue when he rolled over in bed to murmur a good morning to someone who wasn't there, palpable in the air as he tried to look around all the artifacts of a lover he couldn't hold anymore. There's an emptiness in his rib cage that translates to hollow smiles and robotic phrases of gratitude when Charlotte and Cordelia check in on him and have him over to get him out of the apartment. They're concerned, _everyone's_ concerned, but Marvin can't find it in himself to care just yet. He appreciates their presence, he appreciates having a pair of shoulders at the ready should he collapse on himself, but he can't find it in himself to pretend that he's doing any better for their sakes. Not when being around them means he has to watch as they continue their lives together, days full of gentle touches and the reassurance that comes with having someone to come home to at the end of the day, when he feels he no longer has a chance at having that again. He doesn't begrudge them for it, truly he doesn't, but every time he catches them exchanging a kiss or lovesick gazes he feels his stomach churn when it used to put an amused smile on his face.

 

In open honesty, he just doesn't know what to do. He never planned this far ahead.

 

The moment he'd signed the last of the divorce papers he and Whizzer had already found a place to live in together. It'd all been on a passionate whim, a product of an affair neither had intended to morph into something more. The two years he didn't have Whizzer around were spent working and repairing relationships he'd torn. There was little time to spare for making future plans. And then Whizzer came back into his life and he had been so focused on doing things _right_ this time that he hadn't thought too far ahead; they'd been taking it day by day. No one warned him that he'd run out of days to spend with Whizzer so soon.

 

Nonetheless, he finds himself scraping days together, lumping weekdays that pass as a blur. He goes to work when he has to and does what little else he can manage from home. Termination looms over his head, but Marvin can't find it in himself to care. He can barely push himself up and out of bed in the morning when he realizes the place beside him is still cold, let alone keep his head in a professional setting. They'd been understanding at first, when he'd spent the time at the hospital, arranging the funeral, and for the mourning tradition allowed ( though a twinge of guilt strikes his heart when he recalls excusing his absences for the sake of a 'close friend' to cover himself in the workplace ), but now he's taken advantage and calls out frequently. They've grown more callous about it, but the threat of losing his job does little to motivate him. The thought of Whizzer watching him with an unimpressed expression and arms folded tightly across his chest as he _tsks_ and chides for the lack of productivity is almost more motivational.

 

But when not working Marvin discovers he's terrible at keeping himself distracted. Then again, it's hard to not think about what's lost when reminders are still scattered about. The apartment is relatively untouched, looking the exact same as it had the day he and Whizzer left for their game of racquetball. He doesn't have it in him to get rid of anything or pack anything away. The only things he's been able to part with are the cameras and spare rolls of film Whizzer had asked he given to Jason; the spare film had been collecting dust in Whizzer's studio, and Marvin had been able to stop by ( using the key Whizzer had buried in his jacket pocket under a pile of crumpled receipts and his wallet ) to save what he could from the place before it was all tossed out by the owners of the space. He does it briskly, lump in his throat and barely looking at what he grabbed. Arms full, he manages to save binders stuffed to the seams with prints and proofs and film left undeveloped as well as Whizzer's cameras and some equipment he can remember the importance of being stressed about. It doesn't feel like enough, but just standing in the studio had him on the verge of falling apart so he doesn't make a second trip back before the remaining contents are disposed of. The albums are tucked away where he could keep them out of sight and out of mind.

 

But most of the time he finds himself sitting on the couch trying to read, trying to ignore the ache that had not subsided since he returned from the hospital. Vaguely, he wonders how Whizzer had been able to stand leading such a lackadaisical lifestyle in this apartment with his daily routine of pampering himself and entertaining himself with games and lounging around. Truthfully, he’d never questioned what Whizzer did with his time while he was at work. Sometimes Whizzer would have work, clients to meet at the studio or at a specific location, but most of his time was spent relaxing around their home, and Marvin doesn’t know how that didn’t drive the man crazy. Of course, there was also a time where not asking what Whizzer had been up to was for his own sake; while he knew Whizzer had no intentions of being tied down and faithful, he didn’t want to hear about any of his encounters, so he didn’t inquire. He’d had enough jealousy festering in him with the awareness of unfaithfulness alone. But dwelling on that time only makes the ache intensify, bemoaning the wasted time. He might not regret all their time together, good and bad, but from the moment Whizzer Brown had walked away with his suitcase, he’d wanted to redo it. Patch it up, make it better, cover up all the wrongs he’d been unable to right. He’d wanted to make up all those fights and nasty words and wounded feelings with kisses and tender touches, and he hadn’t the time to fully complete that challenge. _That_ , he’ll regret for as long as he lived.

 

Whenever he could muster the strength to visit Whizzer's grave, Marvin would bring a fresh bouquet of roses he'd delivered only a day or two before. When Cordelia carefully asks him ( you'd think he was a walking time bomb with the way people who knew treated him now ) why so many flowers for each visit when he knew he'd be back soon anyways, Marvin just offers a smile that poorly conceals the harsh way his heart twists.

 

"I missed two years," he replied hoarsely, "I've got a lot to make up for and a lot I still owe."

 

A rose for every day he's not able to hand one to a lover who could smile and reward his efforts with a kiss. 

It wasn't traditional, but _nothing_ about Whizzer Brown had been traditional.

 

Trina visits once after a week or so has passed to check in on him and for once since she’s met him voluntarily cooks him a decent meal and tidies his place up. Great care is taken to not so much as reposition any of Whizzer’s belongings in the process of dusting, allowing them to remain in the places they’ve sat since the man they belonged to was brought to the hospital. She didn’t want to disturb any of what remained; she didn’t want to see what would happen if Marvin noticed something wasn’t where Whizzer left it. While she’d mentioned off-handedly that he ought to start putting some of it away, going as far as to suggest donating his nice clothes somewhere, she hadn’t received more than an noncommittal grunt from Marvin before the idea was brushed aside entirely for fresh wounds to continue to ache. Might as well allow them to ache a little longer than rush the healing and cause further damage. Jason doesn’t go to his father’s apartment for a couple weekends while funeral arrangements and ceremonies are pieced together and dutifully acted out. His mother kept a close eye on him in those few weeks, and when she finally felt it safe to send him over to Marvin’s for the weekend ( it would be good for the both of them, she justifies, they both needed the distraction ) she made sure to remind him that he could call home should he need anything.

 

Jason steps into the apartment to find it feeling emptier than he remembered it ever feeling, even when Whizzer hadn’t been living there for what felt like the longest two years of his thirteen years of life. It seemed Marvin had taken some of Trina’s words to heart and at least cleared some things out, like glasses Whizzer had left sitting around with drops of alcohol still sitting in the bottom and flashy magazines he had left discarded on the end table when finished with them. Dropping his bag by the door, partly out of spite because he knows there’s no one to roll their eyes and place it on a hook for him anymore ( Whizzer had never chided or made him do anything like his parents do ), Jason maintains a blank expression as his father greets him and offers a empathetic smile. He preferred that smile, as pathetic as it was, to the ones of pity Mendel would give him before trying to offer some sort of advice. Marvin never tried to give him advice, because at least he _knew_ it’d be bullshit and wasn’t going to waste his breath. Jason appreciated that. But he was still unmoved by his father’s smile. There wasn’t anything to smile about.

 

“Hey, kid. Dinner’ll be ready in a couple minutes.”

 

Jason’s brow furrows as he stares from his spot just outside the kitchen, arms hanging limply by his sides.

 

“ _You_ cooked something?”

 

Marvin allows a weary chuckle to escape his lips, the closest thing to a genuine laugh that has come from him a while, and shakes his head. He had barely managed to feed himself for over a month now, he shouldn’t bother acting offended by his son’s skepticism.

 

“No, Cordelia cooked something the other night. I’m just heating it up,” he clarifies, and Jason’s eyebrows unknit. He doesn’t say another word, but rather moves to the couch and tucks his feet up before grabbing the remote and turns the television on. He takes note of the missing array of magazines that used to cushion the remote. He takes note of the missing presence and lack of life around him. He doesn’t like it. It doesn’t feel like home anymore.

 

There’s too much unspoken, too much hanging in the air. So much so that it feels suffocating.

 

They eat dinner in silence from opposite ends of the sofa, instinctually leaving space in the middle for a third viewer who enjoyed taking up space for his own comfort, the only sound coming from the television and the scraping of plastic utensils against ceramic plates ( Whizzer would’ve been _appalled_ ). When it’s finally deemed time for bed, Marvin shuts the TV off with a press of a button andmoves to place their plates in the sink. The plates will sit there for a number of days before he remembers to wash them. Jason wants to point it out, because when Whizzer was around Marvin would always make a point to mention if there were any dishes left in the sink, but keeps his mouth shut tight. His father looked too defeated, even when smiling, to be putting up much of a fight. And while Jason had always liked making lives difficult, it was almost satisfactory, he couldn’t find it in him to care enough about something so trivial. Besides, he’d have to keep sitting on this couch that was missing their third movie night member while his father did the dishes and he didn’t want to keep sitting there anymore.

 

“Alright, Jason. Time for bed,” he declares with enough energy to show he was trying, “What do you say to seeing a movie tomorrow?”

 

“I don’t want to.”

 

“Okay. I think there’s a ball game happening in the park in the afternoon. We could check that out if you’d rather do that instead,” he tries again, trying to keep the image of Whizzer in that nice leather jacket showing his son how to properly swing a bat in the select part of his memory he’d been suppressing since Jason walked through the door. Jason continues to stare impassively at the black television screen.

 

“I don’t want to.”

 

Biting his tongue, Marvin steadies himself and maintains collected composure. He doesn’t want to snap, not at Jason. But a man only has so much patience in his body, and as he watched Jason unceremoniously hop off the sofa and start heading towards him room, he finds it’s thinning rapidly.

 

“How about we figure out what to do over breakfast, then?”

 

“I don’t care.”

 

“ _Jason—_ “

 

Marvin reaches out and places a hand on his son’s shoulder for the first time since the funeral, and Jason shrugs it off. While Marvin felt unbridled hurt pierce his heart ( the last time Jason had done that was after he’d struck his mother ), the way his son’s bottom lip trembled discredited any genuine coldness. Marvin withdraws his hands and silence hangs tangibly in the air as an explanation or excuse is waited for with expectancy.

 

“I don’t want it to be like he wasn’t here,” a small, choked voice Marvin has never heard Jason speak in reaches his ears and he’s watching that glass shatter against the kitchen floor all over again, “I don’t want you to get rid of his stuff. I don’t want everybody _pretending_ that they’re okay and that they don’t miss him because it’s _stupid_ and it makes it seem like they don’t _care_ anymore. It makes it seem like they don’t even _care_ that he’s **_gone_**.”

 

The way the words spout from his son’s lips like a cork popping off a bottle of champagne has Marvin at a loss for any of his own for a long moment.

 

It had never been his intention to pretend like everything was alright. He’d done enough of that to last him a lifetime in just a two week period. He’d stopped pretending the moment Whizzer had stopped breathing. But everyone kept telling him that moving on was important. That he shouldn’t dwell or let the guilt consume him. So for Jason’s sake, he’d tried to follow that advice. It’d never occurred to him that it might upset his son. It never occurred to him that it might seem like moving on meant forgetting, because it hadn’t even seemed like a **possibility** to him that he could ever forget Whizzer. He didn’t want to forget Whizzer. He wanted to keep even the most minuscule detail of the man locked in his memory forever. But suddenly he’s having trouble remember the exact color of Whizzer’s eyes and he’s overthinking the sound of his lover’s laugh to the point where he isn’t sure how accurate it really is and it’s difficult to breathe.

 

Watching Jason, who’s finally turned to look him in the eye, expression vulnerable and once again Marvin’s reminded of just how young this boy was, he decides that is anyone deserves his total honesty, it was his own kid. His kid, who had adored Whizzer enough to give up his bar mitzvah full of presents from people he didn’t know to ensure the ailing man could be in attendance. Jason, whose smile had been wide and full of admiration when Whizzer had stayed true to his word and shown up to his baseball game, even when what could have been a horribly painful and uncomfortable encounter with Marvin had been inevitable. Jason, who’d only agreed to see Mendel for therapy after Whizzer had encouraged it. Jason, who was on the verge of tears and missing a person who he’d been watching movies with and laughing with not that long ago. His son’s fondness towards his lover had initially made Marvin wary ( if not envious ), despite the pleasure it brought him when he’d been trying to pull a family together by force, but now it strikes him just _how much_ Whizzer had meant to Jason. He’d been so wrapped up in all he missed, in how much it physically hurt not to have Whizzer at his side anymore, that he hadn’t paused to consider how it would affect Jason.

 

“I’m sorry, kid,” he finally whispers, sincere and soft as he scrubs at his face with his hands to try and keep himself from falling apart; no son wanted to watch his father cry, “You’re right. Nobody should be pretending that nothing’s different. But it’s how people cope. It’s some people deal with something like… _this_. But trust me when I say I’m **not** trying to forget. I don’t _want_ to forget him. I miss him, too.”

 

“Nobody else seems to act any different. They were sad for a little while, but then Charlotte and Cordelia went back to work like nothing happened, and Mendel just changes the topic because I don’t think he knows what to say anymore, and Mom just tells me that it’ll get better. But it hasn’t gotten better. Whizzer still isn’t here and if his stuff wasn’t here, it’d be like **_he_** was never here,” words fly from Jason’s lips, distressed and angry and everything Marvin had been keeping compressed in his chest since Whizzer was admitted.

 

“Charlotte’s been working _because_ of what happened,” Marvin defends, partially to remind himself in moments of anger where he felt someone ought to be blamed for this grievance, “That’s why she’s not around as much. Cordelia’s the kind of person who keeps busy to distract herself. It’s probably the same for Mendel and your mother: They need their own ways of coping.”

 

“But is that what Whizzer would’ve wanted?”

 

Marvin draws in a breath and holds it for a moment; this conversation had been tough from the start, but it had been a long time coming. He had to keep it together.

 

“I don’t know,” he admits, “I don’t know what Whizzer would’ve wanted us to do. But I _do_ know he’d want to be remembered. So you and I can make sure we do that for him. We can remember him, and remember all the good parts of having him around. You’ve got his camera— he always said that was the most important thing he owned; it ranked above even his favorite designer shirt.”

 

“ _All_ his shirts were designer, Dad,” Jason interrupts to remind him, and it’s as though there’s a small part of Whizzer speaking through his son and almost enough to make him crumble then and there.

 

“Right,” Marvin amends with a shaky laugh, “Well, that camera was more important to him than _all_ his shirts combined. And he knew you’d take care of it for him. I know that was what he wanted. Remember that.”

 

Jason nods, glancing in the direction of his bag, where it still lay by the door where he’d dropped it earlier that evening.

 

“I will,” he says with enough conviction that it might as well have been a vow. Marvin smiles gently and loops an arm around his son’s shoulders and pulls him close. They stay like that until Jason’s shoulders stop shaking.

 

“I’ve got the camera in my bag,” Jason finally mumbles into is father’s shirt before pulling away to glance up, “Could we go to the park tomorrow so I could test it out? He showed me how to use it before, but he also said I’ve gotta practice a lot too.”

 

“Of course,” Marvin agrees without hesitation, allowing his arms to drop back to his sides, “I can show you his favorite spot. He said the most interesting people walked by that spot. But for now, you’ve got to get some sleep.”

 

Nodding, Jason grabs his bag and retreats to his room.

 

“G’night Dad.”

 

“Goodnight, Jason.”

 

As soon as Jason’s door shuts with a definite click, Marvin is on the couch with his face buried in his hands and trying desperately to manage the sobs bubbling up from his throat and threatening to spill over in sorrow.

 

———

 

A few days pass and Marvin finds himself sitting on his couch and flipping through magazines that had been delivered due to his inability to cancel the subscription in a name that wasn't his. He'd called out of work; it was a Bad Day from the get go. Waking up in a cold sweat, visions of hospital beds and ragged coughs echoing in his ears haunt him regardless of whether his eyes are open or closed. No amount of sleeping pills helped. When a hand reaches out to grab for another's to tangle fingers together for reassurance and instead grabs at sheets his heart is lodged in his throat and he refuses to open his eyes. Hours later he manages to drag himself out of the bed and into the shower.

 

The message light is flashing from his answering machine, but under the assumption that it's either his boss or Trina, Marvin doesn't bother to listen to it. As annoying as the little red light is, he just can't be bothered. If it was urgent one of his neighbors would have been knocking at his door. Jason was more apt to just show up at his door if he needed anything, route already memorized and aware that it would give his mother a heart attack.

 

So when he's thumbing through a magazine full of male models dressed in vibrant colors and hair meticulously mussed and a knock sounds at his door, Marvin is confused. He takes a steadying breath and lets it out before setting the magazine aside and moving towards the door. It could be Cordelia trying to get him out of theapartment again or requesting his help with some taste testing again (if he remembers correctly she'd booked a job baking a large number of cupcakes for a kid's birthday recently ). It could be Charlotte checking in like she tended to, face full of poorly concealed worry; they still hadn't properly addressed his possible fate, both unsure what the best time to do so would be. Neither wanted to discuss it if it was too soon. Why pour a bucket of salt into a relatively fresh wound of this magnitude if you could put it off? If it was Jason, he'd be shocked. As well as their afternoon in the park had gone, that small weight lifted from his son's chest after his outburst improving his attitude, but residual emotion was still plainly in the air around them. Even Trina seemed to sense it when picking Jason up, giving Marvin an inquisitive look that he merely brushed aside with a wave of his hand. It was a gesture he'd picked up from Whizzer over time.

 

"I'll be right there," he calls, and when his hands twists the doorknob and gives it a pull his heart is launched into his throat. Eyes he thought he'd only see in photographs and dreams are staring back at him and he can't think straight for a moment. He'd opened the door to those eyes on a number of occasions, mostly when his lover came home from a long night out with alcohol on his breath, but also when he'd shown up with his things after deciding they were worth a second chance. But when the moment stretches too long he realizes that there's something off about the eyes he's level with. They're too _cold_ , too closed off to belong to the man he'd caught staring so many times; even when angry and giving Marvin the cold shoulder Whizzer's eyes had maintain a certain life. They gave him away without fail once Marvin had learned to read them.

 

Before he can say anything, though, a familiar head of blonde curls is poking into his line of vision to interrupt the silence that had dragged on for too long. Cordelia smiles at him apologetically, inserting herself between him and the people in his doorway.

 

“Marvin! _Hi,_ ” she starts, slowly backing him into his apartment, edging herself through the door while words left her mouth at record speed, “Apparently Trina called you earlier and you didn’t pick up, but these people have been trying to get ahold of you and I guess they came to the wrong door because I don’t know what business they’d have with me— though I’d _gladly_ take their business should they need a **caterer** of any kind —but I’ve been informed that it’s important.”

 

Marvin blinks slowly at her before turning his attention to the pair of people still standing outside his doorway. It was rude not to invite them in, but there was something about them that didn’t sit well with him and prevented open hospitality. That had always been Trina’s area of expertise, anyways.

 

“I haven’t had a chance to check my messages,” he lies easily, aware that even though Cordelia may know that was blatantly untrue, the strangers watching him carefully wouldn’t, “So I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

 

“ _This_ ,” Cordelia draws in a hesitant breath, gauging his reaction with wariness, “Is Mr. and Mrs. Brown.”

 

Marvin’s gaze hardens over, eyes narrowing as his brow creases in sudden reservation as he watches the couple step into his home as though the introduction served as a welcome. They weren’t welcome, neither of them. The woman that stood tall before him wore a smile as sharp as the clothes she wore, which was explanation enough as to where Whizzer had gotten his sense of style from ( thankfully he had made it his own, otherwise Marvin wouldn’t have taken the criticism ), and the rigid way she held herself spoke volumes about her personality without her having to open her mouth. Mr. Brown wore his age well, despite receding grey hairline, and the resemblance between his face and his son’s made Marvin’s skin crawl; the man stood tall and proud, but the displeasure in his expression as eyes raked over the apartment and its owner was thoroughly off-putting on its own. Even if Marvin wasn’t already boiling with anger at the nerve these people must have to show up here and now, after what Whizzer had told him had happened, the judgement that radiated off of them was enough to make him want them miles away. All eyes are on him, expectant, as his fists clench and unclench at his sides while he tries to maintain cordial temperament. Thankfully Cordelia can sense it, and places a gentle hand on his shoulder.

 

“Apparently someone reached out to them to inform them of— what happened. Your address came up, but messages got mixed up during a game of phone tag, so…here they are. Finally,” she explains with a timid smile, trying to read his expression. His eyes don’t leave Mr. Brown for a moment, staring the man down with upmost hatred.

 

“They’re not welcome here,” he finally utters, voice low and antagonizing. Cordelia recoils, looking between the Browns and Marvin with bewilderment.

 

“Marvin—“

 

“ _They are **not** welcome in this apartment._ ”

 

Words are repeated slowly, drawn out with clarity. All he knows is that now he has a face to match with a figure that had haunted his lover for god knows how many years, and that this was the man who had turned on his own son, raised a hand and struck his own son across the face. As a father and as a grieving lover, _none_ of that was remotely forgivable.

 

“We’re here for our son’s belongings,” Mrs. Brown spoke up, entitlement evident in her tone, and it was Cordelia’s turn to face the woman with indignant expression.

 

“You lost the right to any of your son’s belongings when you threw him out,” Marvin retorts, and Cordelia’s hand shifts from his arm to his chest, as though she were expecting him to start swinging. Vaguely, he reminds himself that he should’ve lost the same privilege when he threw Whizzer out himself. But Whizzer had given him a second chance, Whizzer had come back into his life; there was a _reason_ Whizzer never went back to his parents.

 

“ _He_ left _us_ ,” Mrs. Brown argues, “He had options. Choices. He made the wrong ones, we had to act accordingly.”

 

“I want you _out_ of my home,” Marvin repeats himself, eyes narrowing as voice grows unsteady, electing to spare them all the ‘it isn’t a choice’ argument, “I don’t want to hear _anything_ you have to say about Whizzer.”

 

Mr. Brown finally shifts to step before his wife, shoulders set defensively. Marvin’s starting to think Cordelia’s precautionary hand on his chest might be a smart move; he’s not sure he can tolerate having this man speak to him without wanting to connect his fist with the older man’s jaw. He hopes that if he does lose restraint, it leaves a nasty bruise.

 

“You know, last I checked there was a _time_ for mourning, and last I checked that time should be long past by now,” the man said with nonchalance, voice deep and monotonous, and Marvin is tempted to interrupt to inquire whether the couple mourned at all but holds his tongue, “So perhaps you can set aside your _misguided_ heart for a moment so we can settle business like men. **_Real_** men.”

 

“Are you trying to imply something?”

 

Mr. Brown lifted a thick eyebrow and a hint of a smirk tugged at taunt lips.

 

“My son was no man. However, given your **background** I’m hoping that, despite your confusion, you’ve still got some of your masculinity in tact. That way we can talk man to man and get this junk cleared away.”

 

Cordelia steps between them, placing her other hand on Marvin’s chest to steady him, feelings his chest rise and fall with mounting rage. All he can see is Whizzer laying there in that bed and spilling his guts about how horribly these people had treated him, trying to cover how much it hurt with feigned nonchalance. The way his brow had creased and fingers had busied themselves, they'd all been giveaways to Whizzer's true feelings towards the matter. They'd wronged him and were now standing in front of his lover demanding to take what remained of him away after insulting their own late son. Yeah, Marvin wasn't about to stand for that.

 

“Marvin, keep your head,” she advises softly, before turning to the Browns with a noticeably forced smile, quite unlike the last she’d flashed them, “Excuse us for _just_ a moment.”

 

Guiding Marvin into the bedroom, just one wall over where there’s no chance of being overheard, she finally lets out a labored sigh.

 

“Okay. I’m lost, so I’d _really_ like you to catch me up here.”

 

“His parents tossed him to the curb, Delia,” Marvin hisses as a hand rakes through his hair, “The man standing out there _beat_ him and tossed him out the front door with _nothing_. You heard how they talked about him, they didn’t _care!_  All they could equate his worth to was who he loved. He was their son— _their **son**!_ You don’t treat your child like that. You love them, _unconditionally_. I will **not** have them walk into my home, _our_ home, and insult him. They can’t just degrade him and then expect to be handed all I have left of him.”

 

Shoulders shake with emotion that was tightening his throat, and Cordelia’s previously strained posture softens as she moves to embrace him. As she cards a hand through his hair, allowing him the time to recollect himself, she speaks in a measured voice.

 

“We can’t just send them away. They came all this way and waited this long to collect his things. We don’t have to give them everything. They don’t know what’s yours and what’s his. Just hand them what you feel you can and call it a day. You’ll never have to see them again after this.”

 

Considering her suggestion, Marvin comes to the conclusion that it isn’t a horrible idea. Maybe it was a good thing he hadn’t started packing Whizzer’s things up and into boxes just yet. Now he would be able to claim things as his own and they wouldn't be able to argue, because for all they knew the only things Whizzer could have here anymore was a toothbrush and a couple of outfits stuffed into the closet. So reluctantly he nods, agreeing to do the bare minimum for the people in his living room. They might not deserve even the bare minimum, but he might as well get this and them out of the way as quickly as possible so he can pretend he’d never had to deal with them at all. He just hopes Jason doesn't come back next weekend to find most of Whizzer's possessions gone and take it the wrong way.

 

“Fine,” he relents, “They can take some of the stuff that’s lying around. But we’re doing this on _my_ terms, not theirs.”

 

“I’m not going to argue with you about it,” Cordelia holds hands up in mock submission, “If what you’re telling me is true, and I don’t doubt it is, then I want these people out of this building as soon as humanly possible.”

 

The smallest of smiles pushes tired lips upwards and Marvin braces himself to return to the living room; as long as things went by his terms, there shouldn’t be further issues. Cordelia gave his arm a reassuring squeeze before heading back out of the room. Marvin stands there a moment longer, scanning the room for remaining signs that someone aside himself had lived there once. Jason came and went, things neatly jammed into a single backpack, and rarely is anything left behind. But artifacts of Whizzer remained scattered around the room, around the apartment. For someone so anal about cleanliness, he hadn’t always been the tidiest of people. Marvin had filled a trashcan with products from the bathroom alone when he’d finally cleaned it out. All the hair styling products and fancy shampoos and conditioners were tossed without much hesitation, as Marvin certainly had no plans of using it himself. He hangs onto Whizzer’s favorite brush and the cologne he might as well have bought in bulk because Marvin can’t remember Whizzer ever smelling of anything else ( with the exception of alcohol and on occasion other men’s cologne ). The bottle of cologne now sits on the bedside table, emitting the faintest hint of Whizzer into the room, as it’d only feel emptier without it.

 

Closing his eyes, Marvin tries to imagine that this was all just a bad dream, a habit he’s picked up since the night after the bar mitzvah. He could open his eyes and find himself lying in bed again, no one in the apartment but himself and his lover, who slept soundly beside him. He could open his eyes and Whizzer would be lying there, just within arm’s reach, to lull out of sleep with drowsy kisses and murmured words. No estranged parents, no caterers that were doing their best to mediate, no judgement or discriminating words being thrown in his direction by people who would have been utter strangers had he not been told of their wrongdoings.

 

But he opens his eyes, and it’s just him standing alone in a bedroom that used to feel more like home than any other place he’d known aside from the arms of Whizzer Brown. It doesn’t anymore. Like most things, it’s just another reminder.

 

Stepping back out into the living room, he buries his hands in his pants pockets and makes direct eye contact with Mr. Brown, chin raised defensively. His pride could not tolerate any more slights, and he wouldn’t stand for any further injury to Whizzer’s name, either.

 

“You can start with the racquetball sets over there by the sofa,” he says, with firmness not to be disputed as he gestured to the pair of bags that had been collecting dust for months by their spot on the floor. Mr. Brown eyes them with interest, and Marvin doesn’t mind; the sooner those were out of his sight, the better. Every time he caught a glimpse of them he was watching the man he loved collapse on the court _over_ and _over_ again and it’d been driving him mad. A hand grabs both bags by the straps, hefting it up and over a shoulder with some effort, and Marvin continues to direct them around the apartment.

 

The Browns would inspect each object he identified as Whizzer’s ( whether it truly was or not ), and after deciding it was worth their time, they would add it to their haul. But it didn’t seem as though they were looking at each object as something that had belonged to their late son, they didn’t hold things with delicacy or care like Marvin had often handled the same things. By the time he reaches the kitchen and watches them eye the collection of mugs on the shelves, he can identify what it is they’re doing; the expressions furrowing their aged features are the same kinds he would see when he was dragged into a thrift store by Whizzer on a whim while they were out every now and again. Cordelia, who had continued to hover throughout the ordeal, seems to notice the same thing and gives him a hesitant glance.

 

“Most of these are mine,” Marvin admits, which isn’t a _complete_ lie, “Just that one from the Racquetball Club and that tall one there were his.”

 

Both were his own, not Whizzer’s. Whizzer had always been _extremely_ picky with his mugs; he only bought them if they passed his ‘does this go with every outfit in my closet’ test. Marvin didn’t give a damn and bought them whenever he liked whatever design was on them or when he could grab one for cheap. Cordelia notices and he sees her shoulders loosen, tension dropping slightly. Whizzer might have struck them all from above had they given any of his nice mugs to his asshole parents, though the threat of being haunted by Whizzer for the rest of his life sounded far more appealing. The mugs are plucked from the shelf by Mrs. Brown, heels and long arms working to her advantage. Kitchen is combed, but very few things of Whizzer’s were to be found there, to neither Marvin nor Cordelia’s surprise.

 

“Well, he had to have cooked with _something_ ,” Mrs. Brown interjects when Marvin tells them that they were moving to the next room, “Did he not bring anything with him here?”

 

Cordelia presses fingers to her lips to suppress a snort and a giggle, and even Marvin cracks a weary smile.

 

“Whizzer was a microwave whiz, he had no use for pots or pans or fine silverware,” he informs with humor, “I’m lucky this room doesn’t permanently smell like smoke from the one time he tried to actually make something that wasn’t _waffles_.”

 

Mrs. Brown looks appalled, but says nothing more about the matter. Cordelia nudges Marvin as they move to the bedroom, poignant smile on her lips.

 

“Hey— remember the time he tried to save my batch of cookies, a valiant effort, really, but wound up not only managing to burn the cookies but his favorite blazer in the process?”

 

“Like I could forget,” Marvin chuckled, shaking his head with a fondness he hadn’t been able to feel without aching in a while, “He lamented the loss of that blazer for _weeks_ afterwards. Claimed he’d never get over it. And I didn’t think he would, with the way he carried on about it.”

 

“But then he found the exact same blazer in what he deemed a ‘better, more flattering color’ for himself,” Cordelia finished, smile spreading into a grin as she did her best to imitate Whizzer’s voice, "He was hesitant to step into my kitchen for almost two weeks after that. Scared he'd lose another article of clothing or something, I'm sure."

 

Marvin snickered with amusement as he allowed the Browns to have access to the closet he and Whizzer shared. Whizzer's clothes had always been finely pressed and hung, several of Marvin's shirts bore wrinkles and more than one tie is draped haphazardly over the hanger bar. Full disclosure, he'd only continued the lack of care because it annoyed Whizzer and getting the man riled up over it to the point where he was passionately ranting about the importance of taking care of nice garments was thoroughly enjoyable. The Browns didn't seem to care what the clothes hanging there looked like as they combed through the room and contents of the closet.

 

"Was this his?" Mrs. Brown asks, curiosity piqued by the deck of cards on the dresser, in nearly mint condition. Marvin nods, allowing the true answer to see the light of day.

 

"Yeah, those were his. Only saw him use them a handful of times, though."

 

A hum of approval rises from the woman's thrust before she plucks the cards from the dresser and deposits them into her purse. The way she looks around the room with a greedy sort of hunger reminds Marvin of a hawk circling in the air before swooping down to claim prey.

 

"I heard he was a photographer," she continues with indifference, as though she needed to clarify her disapproval, "Do you have any of his work around?"

 

Marvin stiffens and Cordelia shoots him an apprehensive glance; a nonverbal reminder to keep his head. The albums tucked around the apartment now seem painfully visible despite being hidden, and he tries not to stare at the prints hung on the wall. Because these people could take Whizzer's belongings, they could take all the things that forced unpleasant memories to resurface, but like _hell_ they were going to take Whizzer's work. That, Marvin would protect to the death.

 

"No, I don't have anything here," he lies through his teeth, "It all got cleared out when his studio closed a month back. He'd never been the type to bring work home with him."

 

Whizzer's work had been home the majority of the time. Marvin can't recall how many times he'd look up at the sound of a shutter or a flash to find Whizzer grinning at him from behind a camera. He hadn't been able to look through all the pages and pages of photographs in the stack of albums Whizzer had left behind, but he knew that despite Whizzer's ancient complaints about monogamy and the staleness of settling, the contents were domestic. Whizzer had lived what he did with more passion than Marvin had seen anyone bring to their career before. It was something Marvin had always envied, until that passion was turned into attention being thrown in his direction. But Mr. and Mrs. Brown didn’t need to know any of that. They didn’t need more ammo to tear their son’s life apart. Marvin wouldn’t give them that satisfaction.

 

“A shame,” Mrs Brown murmurs in a tone that indicated she didn’t find it to be a damn shame at all.

 

Marvin watches carefully as Mr. Brown pushes through the clothes in the closet, the sound of hangers squeaking as metal scraped against metal carelessly filling the otherwise quiet room. He begins pulling things out, checking labels and quality as he went along, rummaging through what was clearly Whizzer’s side, clear divide made by the way hangers were pushed aside. Something in his stomach knots and makes him feel nauseous as item after item is pulled and draped over Mr. Brown’s arm. There went Whizzer’s favorite shirts, some of the same he’d watched get folded neatly and shoved into a suitcase that had exited and reentered his life in a less than timely fashion. Cordelia watches Mrs. Brown intently, as though she were under the impression the woman was going to try and rob him of anything truly valuable, but the way her bottom lip trembled made it clear to Marvin that watching as Whizzer’s clothes were removed was getting to her. He’d always taken such care of his appearance, his outfits, it was admittedly difficult to watch it all just get moved around. Clearing his throat, Marvin hovers closer to Mr. Brown, watching with acute carefulness.

 

“That one there, that was a gift,” he informs to fill silence as well as hopefully get it through to this man that what he was handling had importance, “I gave it to him for his birthday. I think it’s the one time he _actually_ admitted I’d gotten him something he’d actually use.”

 

Mr. Brown stares at the shirt for a moment, as though contemplating putting it back ( whether out of disgust or for Marvin’s sake is unclear ), but heaps it into the pile weighing his arm down after that moment passes. Marvin stares at the shirt, trying to push the lump in his throat away.

 

“It’s a nice shirt,” Mr. Brown states, plain and simple, like the curt reply would save him from any further conversation.

 

“What are you doing with all his things?”

 

Question is out of his mouth before he can catch it, but is posed in a conversational way rather than confrontational. It turns Cordelia’s head, both now waiting for explanation.

 

“We’re hoping to sell what we can,” Whizzer’s father replies, relaying the information like it was the daily forecast, “Most of these items are fairly well preserved and the majority of these shirts are designer, so we’ll be able to make something off it all.”

 

This shouldn’t surprise him, Marvin realizes, that it fits right in with the rest of his knowledge of these people. And yet he stands there, brows knotting in poorly concealed disbelief as he struggles to find words. Cordelia looks like she’s having the same plight, but the livid expression on her face is one he’s never seen before, and even though there’s no frying pan in sight, he’s almost afraid one might materialize in her hand just so she can wail on them with it. He wouldn’t be inclined to stop her; Whizzer’s parents had walked into his home, demanded to take what little of their son remained, and their only intentions were to make a **profit**. It was morbid and Marvin’s ready to pick a fight again, hands trembling in violated fury, when Mr. Brown reaches for one of the last things in the closet— Whizzer’s leather jacket.

 

“That’s _mine_.”

 

Hand runs along black leather as though icy words had gone unheard, thoughtfully inspecting it. If Marvin thought Whizzer would’ve struck them all from above over the mugs, he’s thoroughly shocked lightning hasn’t split the roof now.

 

“Handsome jacket,” Mr. Brown muses, but when he locks gazes with Marvin and can see the rage burning through unwavering irises, he does the smart thing and removes his hand, “Pretty sure I saw one nicer in a thrift shop a couple blocks from here, though.”

 

“Well, I’d go get it before someone beats you to it, then,” Marvin retorts cooly, “There’s nothing left here to take, so I’d say we have no further business to attend to.”

 

“I suppose that’s true,” Mr. Brown grants with a stiff nod of his head, and shifts the clothing in his arms to extend a hand out to bereaved man, “You seem to have a level head, Marvin. I pray it won’t go to waste amidst your _confusion_.”

 

Marvin doesn’t shake the offered hand, doesn’t even look at it.

 

“I’m _not_ confused,” he clarifies, and out of the corner of his eye he sees Cordelia’s rage melt away to something akin to pride, “I know for a _fact_ that I loved a man. I know for a _fact_ that the man I loved was your son. I know for a _fact_ that your son helped me figure out who I am and be _proud_ and _content_ with who I am. And I know for a _goddamn_ fact that I want you _out of my home_.”

 

Cordelia looked like she wanted to applaud, but the unabashed smug grin on her lips suffices.

 

Mrs. Brown puts her free hand that wasn’t clutching her purse now full of Whizzer’s belongings to her chest in what he assumes is indignant offense while her husband scowled and retracted his hand. They got ( most of ) what they came here for, now it was time for them to take their bow and leave. Muttered string of curses and slurs slips past Mr. Brown’s lips as he places a hand on his wife’s back and guides her to the door. Marvin can hear the door close from where he stands rooted in the bedroom. As soon as the definite click of the door reaches his ears, he’s dropping to sit on the foot of the bed, eyes glued to the leather jacket where it hung in the closet. Maybe one day Jason would grow into it, but for now it’d stay in this room until Marvin either dared to try wearing it himself or hand it down. Either way, he’d ensure it was in the hands of someone who knew its value.

 

Cordelia presses a kiss to the top of his head and excuses herself.

 

“You know where to find me if you need me.”

 

And with that, he’s left alone again.

 

Eyes don’t move from the jacket. It’s so easy to picture Whizzer standing there in it, aviator glasses perched on his nose and perfectly coiffed hair. The picture of perfect health, just as he’d been the day he walked across the baseball field and back into Marvin’s life like he had every right to. Tears prick at the corners of his eyes, hot andirritating but stubbornness forbids them from falling. Memories flit across his vision, the feel of Whizzer’s lips against his own, the words _“Let that be your incentive to call this time,”_ ringing in his ears, the giddy smile that spread across his face as he watched Whizzer walk away ghosting across his face again. It’d been a good day. And any day Whizzer wore that jacket after that day had been a good day. Because he’d always looked _fine_ in that jacket, and all the widest smiles on Whizzer’s face that Marvin can remember were accented by that jacket.

 

Pushing himself to stand, Marvin moves towards the jacket and pulls it from its hanger. He holds the jacket close to his chest and buries his face in it. A familiar voice chides, warning him not to get any tears on such a nice piece of outerwear, it could damage the leather, but it smells overwhelmingly like Whizzer and Marvin feels more empty than he had when he woke up this morning. Clinging to the jacket as if, somehow, it could keep Whizzer closer to him, he picks his head up and scans the room. The whole apartment suddenly feels too large, too bare. The absence of Whizzer’s things makes it seem as though it were never there. That it had all been an illusion to start with, and that if he didn’t have the jacket in his hands as some sort of alibi, he’d never gone to that baseball game at all. That Whizzer was still gone, that he’d never come back. Marvin decided he hated this feeling. So he decides to do something about it.

 

Without letting go of the jacket, he digs out the photo albums. With unsteady hands Marvin situates himself on the bed and begins to flip through them. He finds sheets of negatives tucked inside covers, but page after page is filled with photographs. It’s as he expected; while some were more portfolio than anything, client based projects and photoshoots, the majority of what Marvin had been able to save were photographs of himself and his family. With the greatest of care, fingers turn pages and the pain in his heart subsides even as tears begin to form streaks along pale cheeks.

 

There were snapshots of their family, at angles he'd never have thought to try, and at moments he'd never thought to soak in and cherish as much as he should. Whizzer truly had an eye for moments. He sees Charlotte and Cordelia laughing as they took a stroll through the park, Charlotte's arm draped across lover's shoulders with a satisfied smile on her lips that implied the reason Cordelia looked as though she'd never laughed harder in her life was because Charlotte had cracked a joke. Her jokes were far and few between, but compensated for low quantity by high quality. Marvin can't remember the last one she'd told him. Eyes shift to another picture, one of Jason with a baseball bat in his hands and features pinched by determination as he stares down whatever kid is pitching to him. After the baseball game, Whizzer had volunteered to be the one to take Jason to his practices. Looks like he'd gotten bored of just sitting around and had decided to make a photo shoot of the thing. There were a number of photos Marvin recognized as shots of the baseball field and surrounding area, all composed with the greatest of care. He notices, however, that while he's featured in a few group shots, there's none of him on his own. Trying not to be a little hurt by this fact, he continues skimming.

 

Mendel and Trina make surprise appearances, and judging by the aggravation emitted by the photograph alone, he can tell it must have been a shit Whizzer snuck one of the nights Trina came to pick Jason up and wound up wasting twenty minutes arguing over bar mitzvah details. In the end, none of what they had spent so long bickering about mattered. Marvin realized that none of these pictures are dated, no information written on or around them for identification purposes. He could only sit there and estimate the time and place, try and pull fragments of memories together.

 

Obviously, Whizzer himself doesn't make a single appearance, and as he was the photographer, it made sense. But it left Marvin unsatisfied. There were precious few photographs of Whizzer around, even less of them together. The only ones he can think of off the top of his head are the ones Trina had taken at the bar mitzvah; she had dropped them off after getting them developed, and they had remained in the folder she'd placed on his coffee table for weeks before he felt he could look at them. But he wanted to remember Whizzer for who he had been, for all he was before being stripped of it all by illness. He wanted to see Whizzer laughing, smiling in somewhere other than his memory. He wished he'd taken more pictures himself.

 

At the very bottom of the pile of albums is one Marvin had almost forgotten about entirely: the photo album he’d been desperate to get his hands on since he’d learned of its existence.

 

_“You’ll have to pry it out of my cold, dead fingers before you get to see what’s in it.”_

 

Exasperated smile on his lips, unable to believe Whizzer’s morbid humor had been less than far from reality, Marvin shakes his head and lets the jacket fall into his lap as he picks the album up with both hands. It felt like he was sneaking around, doing something behind Whizzer's back. He'd been so eager to be given the permission to look through this album, he assumes it must be personal because personal things were the only things Whizzer kept to himself, but this wasn't how he'd pictured ever doing it. He'd always figured that someday Whizzer would finally cave to his wheedling and would sit with him as they looked through it together, offering explanations and sharing stories that went with photographs of people and places he didn't recognize. But he was sitting on their bed, alone, and something in his stomach wasn't settling like it was supposed to.

 

Air is inhaled in hopes of keeping himself together and to stall the tears that had yet to cease. Front cover is flipped open and almost immediately a hand is clasped to his mouth to stifle a choked sob. Whizzer's loopy signature is in the inside cover in permanent marker, messy and elegant all at once. The first page is a collection of old photographs of a face that seemed simultaneously familiar and foreign to him. Toothy grin beams up at him from the page, the face of a young Whizzer Brown on clear display in saturated photographs. He couldn’t be older than seven in the oldest picture— in others he appeared to be Jason’s age. Whizzer looked innocent, naively so. That kid had no idea what the future held for him; he was blind to the life he was going to lead, the fate he’d meet. He was just a boy, grinning up at a camera with wild hair.

 

_“What were you like when you were Jason’s age?”_

 

A laugh and smirk flicker across his memory.

 

_“Wouldn’t you like to know.”_

 

Why Whizzer had kept the details of his past concerning his parents behind sealed lips was understandable, but why Whizzer had been so secretive about these pictures was beyond Marvin. Chuckling, he assumes it was the braces and glasses. Fair enough, he’d never have let Whizzer live that down were he there to tease. Admittedly, he did enjoy the few times he’d come home to catch Whizzer with scarcely-used glasses perched on his nose while working on a camera or book. But the braces— well, _that_ was new information.

 

The first few pages are devoted to photographs of a young ( well-dressed, to Mrs. Brown’s credit ) Whizzer and people Marvin assumes were family members or old high school friends. It’s as though he’s looking at an entirely different person, until he reaches the high school yearbook clippings. Everything in this album is labeled in Whizzer’s chicken scratch, dated and explained in as few words as possible. Before the high school portraits, which have clearly been snipped from original pages, Whizzer appeared as carefree and radiant as Marvin would’ve assumed he would be, especially once glasses disappear and braces are suddenly removed and are no longer making appearances when toothy grins are flashed at the lens of a disposable camera. Because something happened between those photographs and the portraits. Suddenly the snideness that Marvin had been so intrigued by and the sly smirk began to replace the wide, innocent smiles. There was a visible change he couldn’t attribute to puberty. A few hunches float through his head, assumptions are made, most concerning Whizzer’s sexuality and home life. A kid still under a roof that didn’t tolerate what or who he was had to tread water until he found a way to float ( or in Whizzer’s case, find a way to shore and never look back at the ocean behind him ). It had to be suffocating. Marvin knew what suffocation of that kind felt like and his heart bleeds for the Whizzer he hadn’t gotten to know.

 

But once he passes the high school photographs, which end abruptly, Marvin finds himself looking through photographs of the city at night, lit up with neon and life. Some are blurry, some are at odd angles he has to confess aren’t well composed, but led by the dates scribbled on the bottom of each photograph, he realizes these were some of the earlier photos in Whizzer’s budding career. Everyone had to start somewhere. But then Whizzer starts including himself in shots, candid photos of him begin to pop up, and Marvin finds himself recoiling at how young Whizzer looks. How young he looked when living on his own, almost too young to have to live like that. Definitely not deserving to live like that. But Whizzer is always featured, most set in a bar or on streets illuminated by vibrant lights and flashing signs, with a drink in his hand, hair in disarray, and disoriented smile on his lips. There’s several different club and street names scribbled along the pages that host these pictures.

 

But as pages turn, Marvin precipitously finds himself face to face with…well, himself.

 

City streets and inebriated young men turn into photographs of tangled bedsheets and mussed hair and finally, finally, Marvin can see all the products of all the times Whizzer snuck a photo when Marvin wasn’t paying attention until it was too late.

 

“Oh, _Whiz—_ “

 

Breath leaves him as he goes through page after page of domesticity, though some photographs dated from their time pre-divorce. Whizzer had kept everything, and Marvin’s thankful nothing had been destroyed or torn up and thrown to the wind after he’d thrown his lover out the door. There’s photos of himself, still asleep in their bed, head buried into the pillows and sheets draped across his reclined body. There’s photos of himself at the table, hunched over paperwork or taxes or whatever it was that enraptured his attention so completely. There’s photos from movie nights with Jason and dinners with their neighbors. There’s photos from walks in the park, photos of Marvin with his bag full of racquetball equipment slung over his shoulder, facing away from the camera. There’s even a few where he’s mid-laugh, hands up in defense in a poor attempt to shield himself from the lens’ view. There are so many private, intimate moment captured in this one album, so many that had gone forgotten, lost to a sea of grief. Each noted with careful handwriting now, carefully preserved.

 

Scribbled under a photograph of Marvin sitting on the sofa, invested in whatever was playing on the television, is _‘I think I love him’_ in such loose writing it takes Marvin a minute to decipher it. But when he does he can feel his bottom lip start trembling again and shoulders shake with noiseless sobs.

 

It was dated in 1979.

 

They’d wasted so much time.

 

Fingers reach out and gently touch one of the few photographs that features his Whizzer, the Whizzer he knew, and the Whizzer that was leaning against the metal bleachers of the baseball field, focus away from the camera as he checked to make sure Jason was doing alright. Sunlight illuminated him, casting an almost angelic crown around his head as he stood there, hands shoved deep into leather jacket pockets, distracted smile on his lips. It was genuine, there was no snideness about that smile or even in nonchalant posture. It was pure, undiluted Whizzer Brown.

 

Marvin didn’t want to remember him any other way, and he’s certain, as he closes the album with trembling hands and sets it on the bedside table next to Whizzer’s cologne, that the man he loved wouldn’t want to be remembered any other way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys so so much for sticking with me through this. I'm so sorry the updates got so spread out, but I hope I compensated with the growing length of chapters?? I hope you all enjoyed this and as always, feedback/comments are always warmly welcomed! 
> 
> Throw requests at me for more falsettos content either here in the comments section for my one-shot compilation fic Love Can Tell A Million Stories, or on tumblr @whizzerrbrown !!


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